


What Happened in Vegas Quite Likely Began in London

by soulofair



Series: What Happens In Vegas... [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 01:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7664980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulofair/pseuds/soulofair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock hates the desert. And alcohol. And Las Vegas. And nasty surprises. And all the things that come from situations including those things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted to FFN. I'm now going through and posting my work here as an archive. Enjoy!

Things would have been immensely easier had Sherlock not met Irene Adler. There was absolutely no denying this fact, but every time the thought came to mind, he found himself at a loss for words or any idea of how he ended up here and if there was any other way for this to have gone. Of course Irene was going to have a role in his life.

He only wished it had been a smaller one.

* * *

Sherlock despised the desert. He had hated it before Karachi and his daring rescue of Irene, but after that ordeal, he abhorred it even more. Sand and desolation: it would forever have a connection to Irene.

A series of crimes in the Southwestern United States had led Sherlock to this god-forsaken hellhole of a city, chock full of drugs, sex, alcohol, and other sinful activities. None of the typical activities that drew people to this place interested Sherlock, but he knew that he needed to venture around the city to gather his bearings. Sherlock didn't consider himself a religious man, but after walking a block of the Vegas Strip, he found himself almost wishing he could repent for the sins he was surrounded by. From this feeling alone, he should have known that something was going to go wrong.

Something was very bright. And for some reason, he was lying down. And he was cold in areas that he hadn't expected to be cold in. And then there was that scent… he knew that scent. He knew he knew that scent and was aggravated when he couldn't place it.

Fortunately, Irene could help him with that.

She walked into the room, her hair and makeup completely finished despite the fact that she had apparently forgotten to put clothing on, unless this was a deliberate move to unnerve Sherlock again. Her hair was now a dark-auburn color and she was wearing brown contact lenses, but Sherlock knew exactly who she was through her disguise. "Good morning, darling," she crooned as she strode across the room, showing off just how much clothing she was not wearing.

Sherlock blinked a few times and frowned. He was certain that he would have remembered seeing Irene, let alone going back and apparently sleeping in the same bed as her. He couldn't be completely sure, but he was convinced that they had had sex, based on his state of undress and her chipper demeanor. He tried to get out of bed, but was alarmed to find that he was unable to do so.

"Why am I tied up?" he exclaimed, struggling against the knots that held his wrists captive against the headboard.

Irene sat at the foot of the bed, drawing one of her long, blood-red fingernails along the bottom of his foot. She smirked as he squirmed and struggled to get away from her touch. "You were being naughty," she explained.

"Naughty, or drugged?" he growled.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes… you must know that your voice does such _amazing_ things to me," Irene crooned as she stroked his foot again.

"Would you stop doing that?" he cried.

"Why? Does it… tickle?" she asked as she drew her finger across the roughened skin of the soles of his feet.

He glared at her. Admitting defeat to Irene would only mean that she would take advantage of this at any opportunity she got. But it was obvious, based on his reaction, that this was an Achilles' heel of his. Almost as if she knew that this was his Achilles' heel, she moved up his leg, grabbing the back of his ankle and cradling his lower leg in her hand. "Subtle," he sniffed.

Irene smirked again, and dropped his foot back onto the bed. "So, I don't even get a hello?" she asked him.

"I thought it was implied, based on the fact that apparently, we are far past the hellos."

"Well… you might have said something of the sort last night, but you, as you aptly pointed out, were drugged and were barely coherent. In fact, the only coherent thing that came from you last night was your plea for sex."

"Doubtful, but thank you for evidence against you in a court of law," he muttered.

"I got it on video, actually. Figured you would want to see the evidence."

"Of course you would," he sighed as he closed his eyes and clenched his fists. "Would you please untie me?"

"I'm not done with you yet," she informed him.

"But I've been done with you for several years."

"We both know that that's not quite the case."

"I have work to do."

"I know. And I might be able to help."

"I don't want your help."

"Yes you do."

"Irene, if I wanted your help, I would have asked you sooner."

"In theory, yes, that would work. But in this case, that would have hardly worked. You didn't know that you wanted my help. In fact, I still think you don't know that you want my help."

"I don't want your help."

"Yes you do."

"This is not productive."

She stood up from the bed. "Exactly my point."

His eyes flew open as he realized she was walking away. "Where are you going?"

Irene laughed. "Good lord… you sound like an insecure girl."

Sherlock glared at her again. "Irene, untie me."

"I'm not leaving."

"How am I supposed to believe you?"

She said nothing, but walked over to her bag and pulled a handsome black folder out. With a flick of her delicate wrists, the folder was open and she procured a moderately thick stack of papers, clipped together with a binder clip. Sherlock could tell there were more documents in the file Irene held, but she kept the file positioned so that he could not tell what they were. "They are after me too."

"Who is 'they'?" he asked slowly.

"My lovely friends. Well, I call them friends… they don't consider me a friend of theirs."

"Irene."

"Well, okay… they're former clients who were dealt a bad hand."

"By whom?"

She looked at him pointedly. "For someone so smart…" she sighed.

"Why are they after you? I was under the impression you were still dead."

"Why is Moriarty after you? Or you after Moriarty? You two are supposed to be dead."

"His death was a fake."

"And you were magically resurrected?" she interjected.

"Needless to say, my death was also fake. But your records all state that you are dead. The government files say that you are dead. How could you be reaping new enemies from the grave?"

"No one ever truly dies, Sherlock."

"Clearly," he grumbled as he crossed his ankles, despite the fact that he was no more comfortable in that position than he had been previously.

She sat down next to him and held up the stack of papers that she had taken from her file. "This is our safety net. With this document, we are safer than we were without it."

He peered at the words and paled as soon as he realized what she was holding. "A marriage license?" he hissed. "We are married?"

"And expecting our first child," she added in a mocking, sugary-sweet voice that overly excited young women would use in this situation.

Sherlock was petrified. "Sorry?"

Irene rolled her eyes. "Don't worry… I can't have children. Any child that comes from this body is certainly the work of Immaculate Conception."

He drew in a deep breath and swallowed hard. "Did we get married last night?"

"Yes."

"And I'm guessing I was not freely willing to this."

"No… actually, you were pretty excited about it."

"Doubtful."

"I have it all on film."

"Again, I doubt it."

"Honestly, you need to have a little more faith in people."

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. "Please untie me. You have me on a ball and chain now, so these ties are wholesomely unnecessary. You know that if I try to file for an annulment…"

"Divorce. The marriage has been consummated."

He let out a low groan before he continued. "You know that if I try to file for divorce, I will draw unnecessary attention to myself…."

"To us."

His eyes flashed open. "Stop interrupting."

"What's the magic word?" she sang.

"You wretched woman."

She thought for a moment. "That's _a_ magic word… but that's not the one that I wanted."

"If I file for divorce, the unnecessary attention might blow _our_ covers. You have me where you want me, so untie me at this moment!" he hissed.

"What's the magic word?" she sang again, irritating Sherlock even more.

"No."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Drug use

Sherlock lay there for another hour and a half as Irene walked around the room, dressing herself in an elaborate costume that she had in one of her suitcases, glaring at her like a petulant child. He was still remarkably undressed, wearing only his boxers and, for some reason, a tie that he had no recollection of having in his possession prior to waking that morning. Irene, on the other hand, was wearing a prosthetic belly, thigh-high stockings, a black lace bra, and was pulling on a pair of underwear that looked far too flimsy to be of any use.

"Are you going to back down from this silly little game of yours?" she asked him as she strutted back to the bed and pulled on a loose-fitting blouse.

He gave a noncommittal shrug (as best as he could, lying down and having his hands tied above his head) and closed his eyes. Irene rolled her eyes and reached over him, hitting him in the cheek with her fake belly. "Lord have mercy on the poor thing that procreates with you."

Sherlock opened one eye. "What makes you assume I would ever procreate?" he inquired.

She glanced down at him. "I always supposed you would find someone and create a family in your own way."

He laughed. "I'm afraid that you are sorely mistaken in that supposition."

She unwrapped his right hand, bringing it down to his side before reaching over him to untie his left hand. The belly was dangerously close to completely covering his face now, but he made no indication that this was a problem. Knowing her, she probably would torment him with the prosthetic until she tired of it (likely never), so he held his tongue. Besides, he was relieved that his arms were finally free. He had been concerned about blood-flow to his fingers.

"Are you going to explain why you have me in this way?" Sherlock sighed.

Irene pursed her lips and looked thoughtful. "I would, but I think I would probably be a few steps behind you, Mr. Holmes."

"We are married. Why, pray tell, are we married?"

"How else was I going to get your attention?" she asked him as she flounced off to the bathroom.

Sherlock sat up, threw his legs over the side of the bed, planted his feet on the ground, and cradled his weary wrists in his lap. "You've been tracking Moriarty, haven't you?"

"I think it's quite the opposite," Irene explained as she stuck her head out of the bathroom.

"He's been tracking you. How?"

"I don't know. But he has been leaving clues. I figured you would probably find him here too. He's been leading you to this point."

"What makes you think that?"

"I know Jim. I know what he likes, and he likes you. And since I like you too, I figured Jim and I would meet up again in our pursuit of finding you. Because I know that you like solving puzzles, I knew that you would have followed this series of puzzles and we would all meet up here."

"You've put me in a very dangerous place, Irene," Sherlock informed her.

"Not really."

"How do you figure?"

"I told you, I have information that you need. You need that information to keep me safe. It works both ways. You don't even need to do anything except use the information. I just need your name and a marriage license and I'm safe. You have connections that I need."

"And you think that I'm going to help you?"

"You were quite keen last night."

"Drugs alter the mind."

"I would expect you to know that. I would expect you to be the master of that."

He eyed her warily. "And what might you be insinuating?"

"I know about the drug use, Sherlock," she stated plainly before she stepped into a pair of loose-fitting pants.

"I haven't used since I met John."

"If that's what you've been telling yourself."

He stood up and marched over to her. "I don't use anymore!" he hissed.

Irene grabbed his hand roughly, distracting him from her next move. She stepped down on his foot gingerly, and he let out a yelp of pain. "Don't think I don't know that trick," she growled. "I found the marks last night. Nothing too fresh; two weeks at least. But you've used those spots enough in the past to cause trouble with the nerves. Any sort of injury to the foot, no matter how minor, causes a considerable amount of pain. Don't lie to me, Sherlock. I know enough about you to know when you are."

Sherlock glared at her and ripped his hand away from her. "You have what you want. I'm unwillingly upholding my part in this. Where's your part?" he spat.

Irene nodded her head towards a stack of files bound together with rubber bands and paperclips. She turned and walked away from him as he gravitated towards the documents. He sat down and started pulling everything apart, not noticing when Irene left the room. By the time she returned, nearly seven hours later, he had the papers laid out all over the room. He had bothered to dress himself, pulling on his dark jeans and the light-colored t-shirt he had been wearing the previous day, but was still barefoot and his hair in disarray.

"Have you found anything of interest?" she asked him as she closed the front door behind her.

"Have you ever been to Santa Fe?" Sherlock asked, surprisingly responsive.

"Santa Fe?" Irene echoed as she stepped over a few piles of paperwork in the walkway. "No, why?"

"The last few crimes have been in major cities along the West Coast. He's been moving around the Pacific Rim. I wouldn't be surprised if the chain of crimes went all the way back to Polynesia, based on the pattern he's been following. Now, instead of going into Mexico, where I'm sure he'll end up, I think he's going to Santa Fe. If he isn't, we can follow him out of the States through Cuidad Juarez. It's all about strategic locations."

"We?"

"You think I'd leave you to your own accord with Moriarty around? How do I know you're not working with him?"

"He's trying to kill me," Irene explained.

"Is he one of your many friends?"

She nodded. "So, Santa Fe?"

"Yes."

"When do we leave?"

"Well, we should probably make plans to stay there for some time. A few months or so. We will need short-term lodging."

"Have you looked into this?"

He tossed her a notepad with a series of addresses on it. "I have calls in to each of these places. Best case, we will be able to leave the day after tomorrow."

Irene nodded in understanding and then stepped into the bathroom to freshen up. "We have reservations at 7:30," she called from the bathroom.

"Reservations for what?"

"Dinner…" she stated flatly. "Honestly…"

"Oh. I don't eat while I'm working."

"Well, you are going to eat."

"I see you're slipping into the controlling-wife role," Sherlock grumbled.

"I'm quite adaptable," she answered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gathered up the papers and put them back into their stacks before he bound them with paperclips and rubber bands, as he had found them. A glance at the clock showed that it was 6:50, meaning that they had forty minutes before they had to be at their reservation. "Is it a nice place?" he asked her.

Irene answered by gesturing to a stack of nicely wrapped boxes on the bed. Sherlock walked over and opened the boxes and found that she had gone out and purchased an outfit for him. He had to laugh when he found that she had dressed him, head-to-toe in black. "Do I need to provide my own frock?" he asked her.

"If you insist. Might raise some eyebrows."

She stepped out of the bathroom dressed in an outfit that Sherlock wouldn't expect a woman, pregnant or acting as though she were, to wear. "Stilettos whilst pregnant?" Sherlock questioned.

Irene smiled slyly as she worked to put her necklace on. "I always imagined that pregnancy wouldn't impede on my style."

Since Sherlock didn't necessary disagree with that justification, he dressed quickly and followed Irene out of the room. He realized, as they walked down the hallway to the elevator, that he honestly had no idea where he was. He could have looked at the notepad that he had jotted the addresses down on, but he had been so absorbed in the work that he hadn't noticed. "Where are we?"

She turned to look at him with an amused look. "You really are that oblivious, aren't you?"

He glowered at her. "Where are we?" he sighed.

"Caesars."

This received no reply. Instead, they made their way to the restaurant for their reservation without a word and had dinner in the same way.


	3. Chapter 3

The required arrangements were made and the following evening, Irene and Sherlock packed up Irene's things (and Sherlock's things, which they retrieved from his motel room) and readied themselves for a drive across a few states. Irene explained that they would need to make a stop somewhere down the line, but refused to give Sherlock any answers. Instead, she gave him the car keys to her stylish black Volkswagen SUV, and the directions to drive.

They drove for a few hours in the early morning light, sharing no words until Irene informed him that they would need to turn off of the main highway to make their slight detour within five minutes. She later directed him off of the main road and off onto a dusty, isolated country road that gave Sherlock an uneasy feeling. They eventually made it to a small house.

The house was rather well kept, devoid of any indication that the house was in a state of disrepair. Irene seemed anxious to get the meeting over with, but did not appear to be uncomfortable with what she needed to do at this house. Sherlock turned the car off, but left the keys in the ignition. "I shouldn't be long. If something should happen, just drive. Don't worry about me; just get out of here. And leave the car on," she told him as she got out of the car and walked to the front door.

Sherlock turned the car on, per Irene's directions, but did not take his eyes off of her as she walked to the house. The front door opened and Sherlock made sure he got a look at the person who answered the door. It was a small, older woman with greying brown hair. She reminded Sherlock of Mrs. Hudson, so Sherlock did not underestimate the power this woman could have. Mrs. Hudson could easily be an assassin.

A few minutes passed, and finally the front door opened again. Irene was cradling a small bundle against her chest as she came out to the car. From what Sherlock could see, the bundle was wriggling around; perhaps it was a small dog or a cat. She was completely transfixed on whatever it was, to the point that she did not acknowledge that Sherlock was staring at her. "I really hope you don't have a baby in there," he told her as she got into the car and buckled herself in.

"Drive," she ordered quietly as she situated the bundle so that it was now completely in her lap.

As the blanket fell away, Sherlock realized it was not covering a cat or a dog. "A baby? Oh lord… I was only kidding about that. You stole a baby? Oh good… good, that's excellent. I'm now driving a get-away car, thus _enabling_ you to steal a baby! I'm now an accomplice!" he exclaimed.

"Shhh…" Irene hissed. "And no… I did not steal a baby."

"Oh, this is perfect. Who in their right mind would _give_ you a baby?" he scoffed.

Irene turned her head sharply to glare at Sherlock. "He is Kate's son. And since Kate was brutally murdered, I'm his guardian. This is Winston."

Winston appeared to be asleep. But because Sherlock was driving and was still unconvinced that Irene had legally acquired this child, he did not pay much attention to the baby. "Winston is a ridiculous name."

"Seriously?"

"What?"

"And Sherlock isn't a ridiculous name?"

"Of course it is, but I can't do much to remedy that."

"Of course you could. You could go by your middle name," Irene suggested.

He snorted. "That's even more ridiculous."

"Well, I rather like the name Winston. Kate wanted her son to be named Winston, and I approve of the name."

He rolled his eyes but did not take his gaze off the road in front of them. Sherlock wasn't quite sure where they were anymore. He suspected they were close to crossing into New Mexico, based on the distance they had driven from Las Vegas and the slight detour in the middle of Arizona that had resulted in the acquisition of Winston, but until he saw a road sign, he couldn't be certain. Santa Fe was turning out to be more work than it was worth.

They crossed into New Mexico twenty minutes after Irene collected Winston. Irene explained that they would need to stop at some point to get a car seat for the baby, in order to deter unwanted attention. Sherlock found the closest shopping center and parked the car in a shady part of the parking lot. "Am I going in, or are you? Whoever doesn't go in will have to stay with the baby in the car."

Irene snorted and eyed him quizzically. "You, with the baby? Just go and get the essentials."

"What are the essentials?"

"Honestly?"

"I've never been around children before."

She sighed and rifled around her bag for a pad of paper and a pen. "Okay… so he'll need a bottle or two. They usually come in packs of multiples, so we should be fine there. He will need formula. Make sure it's the best brand. Of course, he'll need a carrier. Make sure it's safe. Then, we will need the incidentals, which will probably include nappies, wipes, soap, shampoo, lotion, and some onesies."

"What are onesies?"

She furrowed her brow at him. "You really are hopeless, aren't you?"

"I've never been around children before."

"Clearly," she said with a sigh.

Irene moved to unbuckle the seat. "Please come around to the other side of the car. I need to hand you the baby."

"Why?"

"I'm going in to do the shopping."

"But you can't take it in with you," Sherlock reminded her.

"You're staying with him."

"No… no… no. No. No, that's not a good idea. No."

"What do you propose we do with him then?"

Sherlock sighed and got out of the car. When he opened her door, he said, "Please be efficient. I would like to not make this longer than necessary."

Irene rolled her eyes and handed him the small infant. Winston was awake by now, his baby-blue eyes staring at Sherlock with rapt interest. As Sherlock took the baby, his arms awkwardly positioned, Winston let out a small cry of displeasure. "Great…" Sherlock muttered.

Irene slid out of her seat and took a moment to get her balance. She was still wearing the prosthetic belly, and as result, her center of balance was unsettled. "This makes more sense," she explained to Sherlock as she helped him adjust his hold on Winston. "An expectant mother buying all of these things makes more sense than a clueless man wandering the aisles."

"Well, that makes sense too," Sherlock pointed out. "But for the sake of time, you're better equipped."

She nodded. "Now, make sure he stays cool. You can make sure he's not too warm by feeling the back of his neck. Babies cannot control their body temperature, so if he's feeling like he might be too warm, just take the blanket off of him some. If he seems like he might be cold, put the blanket back on him. Just relax, and you'll be fine. I won't be too long."

"What if he cries?"

She shrugged. "I've never been around children either."

"Oh, good. This was a smart idea, Irene. This was excellent. I think this was your best idea ever," Sherlock spat sardonically.

"Well, you got us in this position," she replied as she walked away from the car.

Sherlock sat down in the passenger seat of the car and closed the door. The keys were still in the ignition, but the car was locked. Winston promptly decided to demonstrate his lung capacity by letting out a loud wail. His wail immediately gave way to shrill screaming. When Irene returned to the car with a surprising amount of supplies for the baby, Sherlock was convinced that he had lost some of his hearing.

"What did you do?" Irene exclaimed upon hearing Winston's screams.

"I held him. He was not hot, he was not cold. He was apparently not tired, and he did not need to be changed. I think he might be hungry, but I was incapacitated in that respect."

Irene nodded in understanding and took the baby from Sherlock. "Winnie… shhh now Winnie, it's fine."

"Winnie?" Sherlock echoed.

"Yes."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Winnie is even worse than Winston."

"Kate wanted her son to be called Winston so his nickname could be Winnie, as in Winnie the Pooh."

"What is that?"

"What?" Irene squeaked as she comforted Winston and walked around to the back of the car. "You don't know what Winnie the Pooh is?"

"Is that a movie?"

"It's a book, Sherlock. It's a children's book. Didn't your mother ever read it to you?"

"My mother was not directly involved in my upbringing. It is more likely that a nanny may have read said book, but like most things from my childhood, I would have deleted it."

"Sorry?"

"Unnecessary information is deleted. My brain is a hard drive and every bit of space is precious. I do not clutter my hard drive with unnecessary information, such as what books my insignificant nannies may have read to me in my youth."

Winston was still whimpering, but his screams had subsided considerably. As it turned out, he had gotten tangled in the blanket as Sherlock had tried to follow Irene's instructions, and his foot had been put in an uncomfortable position. When Sherlock had stood up when Irene returned to the car, the blanket came loose and he was able to get his foot free from the bunched up blanket.

Once the car was loaded up and Irene was able to fix a bottle of formula for the baby while Sherlock installed the car seat in the back of the car, they were on the road again. Irene sat in the back with the baby, feeding him and later burping him, riding quietly for the rest of the drive to Santa Fe.


	4. Chapter 4

Santa Fe was rather lovely this time of year: early fall. The surrounding mountains were lush with vegetation and the temperature was mild enough so that the Britons weren't dying from the heat. Winston had slept long enough so that he didn't drive Sherlock insane, and Irene had been so fixated on Winston that she didn't bother Sherlock as he drove.

They arrived later than they had hoped, but Irene had called the landlord to tell him that they would meet him the following day since their plans had changed slightly and they didn't want to hold him up because he was waiting for them. Instead, they went to a motel for the night.

Irene and Sherlock mistakenly thought that they would be able to get some sleep because Winston was sleeping and didn't appear to be waking up soon. Of course, as soon as they convinced themselves of this, Winston woke up. At one in the morning. He began screaming, and no matter what Irene did, he just wouldn't calm down. She was starting to get frazzled.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was simply not pleased in the slightest. "Make. Him. Shut. Up!" Sherlock growled as he tossed and turned in the bed.

Irene marched over to Sherlock and ripped the covers off. "You could help!" she hissed.

She had taken off the prosthetic and was wearing a flimsy nightgown. Winston was held to her chest, crying into her collarbone. Irene looked distraught, nearly in tears herself. "Do something productive!" she pleaded to Sherlock.

He sighed loudly, but rolled out of the bed and stood up. In an unexpected motion, he held his arms out to take the little boy. "You're hurting him."

"How?" Irene countered.

"Your fingernails. You don't know how much those bloody things hurt."

She let out a small gasp as she handed over the baby and saw the red marks from where she had dug her fingernails into the baby's skin as result of her stress. "Oh my goodness… I'm so sorry darling," she murmured to the boy before placing a kiss on his forehead.

He continued to cry, but as Sherlock marched back and forth across the room, he quieted down. Irene watched from the corner, fascinated by how confident Sherlock was with the baby. "Are you sure you've never been around children before?"

"He likes this."

"Well, I figured that was the case. But how did you figure it out?"

"John would ramble about how babies need structure and like being walked around. Change of scenery and some other rubbish I wasn't really listening to him talk about."

"But what you do remember was important to this situation," Irene pointed out.

"Yes, but that was an anomaly. Most of what John said was purely rubbish," Sherlock replied hastily.

Winston was now quiet, his head resting against Sherlock's collarbone. He had managed to fit his tiny fist into his mouth, happy to gum away on his own little fingers and get drool on Sherlock. In the pleasant light from the lamp on the nightstand, the fine hair on Winston's head looked as though it was beginning to darken to a shade close to Irene's hair color. His eyes were virtually identical to Irene's eyes, and based on his demeanor and the enigmatic necessity for him to be in physical contact to Sherlock, Sherlock was beginning to think that Winston was not Kate's son, but rather, Irene's.

"He's yours, isn't he?" Sherlock asked quietly as he turned to face Irene, who was now sitting in the bed.

She shook her head. "I cannot have children."

"You said that when we were still in Nevada. All the preventative measures you had to take as a dominatrix, no?"

Again, she shook her head. "No… even without the contraceptives, I cannot have children."

His brow furrowed. "But he looks just like you," Sherlock remarked.

"Kate apparently found a donor who shared a lot of physical characteristics with me."

This answer seemed to appease Sherlock, which gave Irene some relief. She did not care to delve into the many personal matters that she had withheld from most of the people in her life. But, knowing Sherlock, she suspected that her relief would be short-lived. Sherlock didn't have enough humanity to drop the subject. "Why bother with the contraceptives if you cannot have children?"

Irene glanced up at him. She had expected him to stay on this subject, but not to ask that question. Maybe he was dancing around the real question but didn't want to outwardly ask it, or maybe he was really that clueless and the thought hadn't crossed his mind yet. "In the off chance that something might happen," she explained.

In actuality, she had been lying to herself for so long that she had forgotten that she couldn't have kids. There wasn't even a minutely remote possibility that she would ever be able to have kids. Learning about Winston and the fate of his mother had brought about this strange desire to have everything she couldn't have. As she watched Sherlock with Winston, Irene realized that she had actually gotten very close to having the things that she had secretly wanted for a while, without having to go through things properly.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock answered quietly. "I've asked too much, haven't I?"

Irene blinked. "What? No. No… you're fine. I'm fine with it."

"No you aren't."

"Sorry?"

"You are not okay with it. Even if you weren't planning on children, the knowledge that you never could have children would still impact you in some way. No one wants to feel like they're damaged goods."

Her face fell and she felt herself warm. She felt a lump form at the back of her throat, and no matter how many times she tried to swallow it down, there it remained. Maybe she was exhausted, maybe Sherlock had hit her over the head with that observation, but whatever it was, she did not like this feeling.

With Winston quiet and nearing sleep, Irene took the baby and put him in the car seat next to her side of the bed. She covered him with a blanket before turning off the light and curled up in the fetal position with her back facing Sherlock so she could keep an eye on the baby and have a better chance of hiding the deathly-silent tears that broke loose as soon as Irene felt Sherlock climb into the bed behind her.

Winston, as it turned out, was a very effective alarm clock. At six o'clock, on the dot, he began making little noises of displeasure, waking Irene immediately. He did not have an encore performance of the night before, but once he was up, Irene and Sherlock were both up. Irene fed him as Sherlock took a quick shower and began to pack up the few things they had brought into their motel room.

The apartment that Irene had arranged for them was ready for their arrival, so as soon as everything was packed into the car, including the baby in the back seat, they drove to their new, hopefully semi-permanent, home.

The apartment was tiny, but for the deal Irene had been able to strike with the landlord, it was perfect for their needs. There was only one bedroom, which was more than big enough for Winston's small cradle and the futon that Irene and Sherlock would share. The apartment had a few furnishings that the previous tenants had left behind, and after inspection, Irene and Sherlock deemed that they were in decent shape. Neither of them looked forward to sleeping on the futon, but until they could somehow acquire a bed, they could make do. "Just think… reliving your university days," Irene quipped as Sherlock grimaced at the piece of furniture.

He snorted and rolled his eyes. "We should get some sort of a mattress bag for it before we sleep on it. Who knows what's on it."

"Let's not dwell on that thought," Irene replied in disgust.

After about an hour of settling in, it seemed as though they had moved into their small apartment as best as they could without really having anything to move in. Sherlock had two small suitcases to Irene's four medium sized suitcases, and Winston's things were all mostly in the plastic bags that they had been packed into the day previous.

"So… now what?" Sherlock asked Irene as he glanced around the apartment.

Irene looked at him with a blank look on her face. There wasn't much they could do, except wait for another clue from Moriarty.

So, they decided to try this marriage thing for a little while. Because, honestly, what could really go wrong with that?


	5. Chapter 5

As it so happened, a lot could go wrong with that. Living with Winston was miserable. The poor child never seemed to have any sort of stability with his guardians, who were also at odds with another. Irene and Sherlock bickered constantly about Winston and when they weren't bickering about Winston, they didn't talk at all. Sherlock had detached himself from Irene to the point that it was like he didn't even live there. All he did was work on the case and watch for clues.

They lived like that for a month and a half.

Winston eventually warmed to his environment, surprisingly more comfortable with Sherlock than he was with Irene. This didn't sit well with Irene, who was convinced that Winston should have imprinted on her more than he did with Sherlock. However, she knew that Sherlock, the calmer and quieter of the two, would be more appealing to Winston than Irene was. Irene was still far too wired and stressed out about the baby to actually be around him.

By the start of the seventh week of living in their Santa Fe flat, Winston had to be held by Sherlock or he would cry. Irene could hold Winston, but after a while, he would tire of that and would start screaming. He was only like that during the day; at night, he was perfectly content to be with Irene. But of course, this was rather frustrating to Sherlock, who honestly did not want anything to do with the child, and Irene was hurt by Winston's rather obvious rejection of her. Regardless, Winston seemed to know how to irritate both Irene and Sherlock by instinct, which only furthered Sherlock's distain for the child.

It was early morning, and Winston had not woken up yet. Sherlock was awake because he hadn't gone to sleep yet. Moriarty had reared his ugly head yet again. As Sherlock had predicted, Moriarty was following his pattern, but Sherlock couldn't tell if Moriarty was following them or if they were following him.

Winston broke Sherlock's concentration by whimpering softly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and glanced over at the baby monitor sitting next to him. With a sigh, he stood up from his seat at the kitchen table and walked into the room. Irene stirred and rolled over, letting out a soft moan. Sherlock scooped Winston out of his cradle and glanced over at Irene. "I've got him. Go back to sleep," Sherlock murmured as he walked out with Winston.

Once out of the room, Sherlock gave Winston a stern look. "Now is not the time to be waking people up or distracting people by crying," he told the little boy, who stared back at him with wide blue eyes.

They walked back into the kitchen. The kettle of water was now boiling away, so Sherlock turned it down before he retrieved one of the prepared bottles of formula from the refrigerator. Before he sat down to feed Winston, Sherlock set the bottle down on the counter and then retrieved his mug from the cabinet and a tea bag from the jar they stored their tea in. Since he was doing this all one-handed, he ripped the top off the package with his teeth and pulled the bag out in the same manner. After the bag was in the cup, he poured the hot water over the bag and let it sit. It still surprised him how well he was able to manage doing simple tasks one-handed whilst holding a small child who often had a different idea of how things would go.

But this morning, Winston was rather placid, so Sherlock anticipated that he could get further with his work. Sometimes, Winston was useful in Sherlock's work; he couldn't talk or really make use of his limbs, but he was very good at listening. Maybe he was listening, maybe he was just staring at Sherlock because of all the wild gesticulations he was wont to make when he was on a roll with working through a case. Regardless, Sherlock figured that as long as Winston was quiet, the infant had some value.

Sherlock sat down and nudged the nipple of the bottle into Winston's mouth. The little boy began to feed greedily; he was always hungry these days. Sherlock had timed how long it took for Winston to feed before he was full, so he didn't really pay much attention to the baby as he held the bottle. Instead, he pored over several news websites and gleaned information from them. When he figured Winston was done, based on his estimates, he glanced down and saw that Winston wasn't feeding anymore. Instead, he was starting to get a little drowsy, drunk off of his meal.

Sherlock repositioned Winston in his lap so that Winston was resting against Sherlock as if Sherlock were his chair, and Sherlock brought his other arm up to type in some keywords to continue is investigation. Based on what he was finding, he suspected the grand finale to his world tour would be coming soon.

Irene stepped out of the room an hour or so later, showered and dressed. She walked past the two boys in the kitchen, bee-lining for a cup of tea. "Did you sleep last night?" she asked Sherlock.

He shook his head. "He's in Albuquerque."

She paused and put her hand on her hip as she braced against the counter. "South of here?" she asked.

"Yes."

"So have we been following him or has he been following us?"

"I think it might be the latter versus the former."

She exhaled and closed her eyes. "Does he know about Winston?" she asked rhetorically.

Sherlock shrugged. "We better start preparing."

"How can we do that?"

He furrowed his brow at her. "You speak his language better than I do. And I happen to know for a fact that you have some sort of weapon on your person."

"Not right now," she countered.

"No, but in one of those bags of yours, I know you have some sort of weapon. You don't travel without something."

"You didn't go through my bags, did you?"

"No. I was afraid of what I might find."

"What do you mean?"

"I'd like some things to remain a mystery, and I'm sure you have plenty of things that I'd rather remain ignorant to."

She grinned wickedly. "Do you mean sex toys?" Irene asked him teasingly.

"Yes."

Irene chuckled. "Believe me, I don't have anything fun with me. The only toys I brought with me double as weapons."

"Again, I'd like to remind you that I am trying to remain ignorant to these things," Sherlock muttered as he pored over the news story that was on his computer screen. "So, what do you have in regards to weapons?"

"Excuse me for a moment," she answered before she stepped out of the room.

A few minutes later, she returned and took Winston. "Bedroom," she ordered.

Sherlock stood up slowly, wanting to finish reading a paragraph, and joined Irene in the room. She put Winston down in his carrier across the room before she turned her attention to what was next to the bed.

Irene set one of the cases onto the bed and unlocked it. When she opened it, Sherlock let out a small noise of surprise, though he knew that he should have expected this from Irene. Inside the case were three guns: two small handguns that were clearly meant to be concealed weapons and a sniper rifle. "Why do you have a sniper rifle?" Sherlock asked quietly.

She glanced up as she pulled the various components out of the case. "You'd be surprised how many times it's come in handy."

Sherlock tried not to look surprised, but was betrayed by his facial expressions when he did. "I don't know why I'm surprised, but I am," he admitted as he eyed the gun.

"Did I ever tell you that I trained in the Armed Forces? My father was in the army."

"I wasn't even aware that you had parents, based on your behavior," Sherlock muttered.

She rolled her eyes and set the gun down on the bed. "Are you sure that's a safe place for the gun?" he asked her.

"Of course it's not a safe place. I'm not leaving it here," she explained to him, exasperated by his stupid comments.

Winston stared at them from his car seat, placed safely away from the bed. When he saw Sherlock turn to look at him, he gave Sherlock a gummy, toothless, drool-covered grin. Sherlock snorted with laughter before turning back to the case of guns on the bed. "And now you're going to tell me that you are a trained sniper."

"I don't have to. I'm sure you've figured that one out all on your own."

"Yes, I have."

"Well, then that's sorted," she said as she closed and locked the case.

"You aren't a double-agent, are you?" Sherlock asked her cautiously.

"A bit late to ask that question, don't you think?"

He shrugged as he took the case from Irene. "Are you certain that this is the right thing to do?" he asked her quietly, suddenly seeing the weight of what they were about to do.

Irene picked the gun up and started disassembling it. There was a pink bag lying next to the bag, likely how she would stash the gun until it was time for her to use it. She remained silent as she slid each of the pieces of the weapon into the bag, only looking Sherlock in the eye after she had zipped the bag closed. "I've never been more certain in my life."

"Why not?"

"I've never had you on my side the whole way through," she answered simply as she looped the long strap over her head and shoulder, so the bag hung in a cross-body position.

"And what if you betray me?"

She stopped and turned to look at him. "Betray you?"

"Well, yes. You and I don't exactly have a long-standing tradition of trust. We only met because I was against you, and the only reason I'm here now is because you drugged me and made me marry you."

Irene swallowed and glanced down at Winston, who now had his foot in his mouth, happy to gum away at his toes. "The stakes are much higher now. If I betray you, I lose my protection, which probably means that I die and Winston likely dies too. If you betray me, you lose all information, and will probably be killed in the process of accessing that information. The truth of the matter is, we need each other, and you know it. Betrayal is not an option."

She began to walk towards the door. "And what happens after this? After everything is done?"

"Done?"

"Moriarty is finished, you have your protection, et cetera?"

"I don't know."

"Oh, surely you must know. You must have some idea."

"Sherlock, I haven't gotten to that point yet."

"Why not?"

"Because I've been a little preoccupied!"

"I'm not staying with you after everything is done. Don't get me wrong: I appreciate all that you've done, but I'm not husband or father-material. I don't want to be married, and I don't want children. I simply want my work. And you complicate that. People complicate that."

"So what are you saying?"

"I want a divorce the very second everything is settled."

"Well then…" Irene hummed.

"What do you expect? That I suddenly want all of this, that I'd fall in love and everything would be just splendid?"

"I didn't expect you to be so blunt about it."

"Blunt seems to be my specialty."

"Never have truer words been spoken," she muttered.


	6. Chapter 6

The next two days brought much strategizing. Since Irene and Sherlock were almost completely certain that Moriarty was simply waiting for their cue, they decided that they should plan something to their advantage. They were not ignorant to the fact that Moriarty would probably have a trick or two up his sleeve, but they were going to try in earnest to keep the upper hand. (If that was possible.)

They found an abandoned warehouse just outside of Albuquerque and began to plan out their attack strategy. By the time they knew Moriarty was closing in on them, they had a solidified plan.

Moriarty had left a few clues for them the morning that the final showdown would go down. Late in the afternoon, they headed to their 'arena', after assuring that Winston would be in good hands if things went awry for them. After making the long drive, Irene and Sherlock hopped out of the car (Sherlock hopped, Irene kind of slid awkwardly out of the car given the fact that she was wearing the prosthetic again) and they hurried into the back of the building. Per their rehearsals, Sherlock and Irene reached the roof access ladder, and he pulled it down. Irene would go first. "Are you sure you don't want me to go first?" Sherlock asked her, eyeing the obstruction that would slow them down.

"I'm fine," she insisted as she tapped his shoulder to have him crouch down and serve as a step up to the first rung of the ladder, which was still a few feet from the ground.

After he boosted her up, she began climbing the ladder, a bit slower than either of them would have hoped, but still surprisingly spry for the amount of dead weight she was carrying. Sherlock followed close behind, reaching the top of the roof just seconds after Irene did. "You okay?" he mouthed to her when he caught sight of her face.

She nodded, and then moved into position, her swiftness and agility somewhat hindered by the prosthetic in front of her. Though, as soon as they stepped into the building, they were met with Moriarty's men. They had known that this was coming; they had hoped for more time, but this did not come as a surprise.

One of the men grabbed at Irene and quickly made a go at Irene's abdomen, ripping away cloth to get to what they assumed was skin. She yelled and started elbowing the man. "Not my baby! Not my baby! Sherlock!" she screamed desperately.

Sherlock lunged at the man who was attacking Irene, but was pulled back by another man. After struggling in vain for a few minutes, they were locked in an industrial closet, perhaps as a means of keeping them where Moriarty wanted them. The space was small, requiring that Irene and Sherlock sit nested, with their knees brought up to their chests. Irene was practically in Sherlock's lap, and neither of them could really breathe.

"Good lord… this is like a flipping Lamaze class," Irene grumbled as soon as she was able to remove the gag from her mouth.

Sherlock nudged her with his knee, indicating that she needed to remove his gag as well. She turned around slightly, her hips grinding uncomfortably against his pelvis. She could only use her teeth, so when she got dangerously close to Sherlock's mouth, he grimaced and let her have her way with the gag. He assisted her by moving his head back and forth, helping to shimmy the gag down from his mouth. "You've had practice," he muttered.

She winked, but because the closet was so dark, it went unnoticed. When she turned back around, she inhaled deeply and made a noise of displeasure. "I can't breathe," she whined.

"That's not my problem," Sherlock replied quietly, because he suspected that Moriarty had bugged the closet and could listen in.

"How is that not your problem?" Irene countered.

"It's your own fault you're in that position."

"Oh… it's my fault? I seem to recall you had a part in this too!" she squawked.

Sherlock felt a series of movements down by his crotch and grunted at her. "What are you doing?"

She brought a hand up to his face and caressed it behind her back. "Doing what I'm good at," she explained.

"Well, maybe you can do that somewhere else."

"Oh?"

"Oh, you know what I mean!"

She chuckled as she turned around. "Hands?" she murmured, because she too suspected that Moriarty had bugged the closet.

Sherlock struggled to move his hands closer to her, shifting around as much as possible in the closet that was starting to seem less and less like a closet and more and more like a cupboard. Irene leaned against him, reaching around his slender torso to untie the knot that bound his hands together. "There. Much better," she asserted as she turned back around.

Sherlock should have known that she was going to do something inappropriate now that they both retained use of their hands. "Would you give me a backrub, darling?"

"No."

"Oh, why not?" she demanded.

"I'm not interested in having sex in a cupboard. And from what I have heard about massages, sexual arousal is a potential byproduct."

"Ooh… sex in a cupboard… now that's something I haven't tried," she teased.

He rolled his eyes before he let his eyelids droop. Struggling against the cramped quarters, he brought his arms up to attempt to cross them across his chest. Irene made a noise of displeasure, and reached around to bring his arms around her. "Just rest them here. Make use of the space, instead of screwing up my back," she instructed.

Sherlock sighed and let her move his arms. "Please remove my hands from your breasts," he muttered.

"A girl has needs," she explained.

Sherlock felt himself becoming groggier and groggier, not sure if it was due to the darkness of the space or how warm Irene was against him. His eyes were watery, but that wasn't normally a common thing with his sleepiness. "Irene… we have to get out of here," he whispered.

"Took you long enough to figure that one out," she muttered.

"No… he's gassing us. Some sort of sleeping gas. He's numbing us out, perhaps as a means of getting to us. We have to get out of here as soon as possible," Sherlock explained, his voice barely audible because he was no longer only assuming there were bugs; he knew for certain that there were.

She turned against him again, gyrating painfully against him. Her left elbow dug into his belly while the rest of her body lay against his. "How, pray tell?"

He brought her ear to his mouth and whispered his idea. "Long shot, but he can hear virtually everything. You've got to feign childbirth."

Sherlock felt the muscles in her face move, and he knew that she was either very confused or very impressed with his plan. Either way, it was likely that she was going to comply. She let out a very convincing yelp of pain and then proceeded to go through a rather elaborate series of sound effects. She was so convincing that Sherlock almost suspected that she had experienced childbirth at some point and was only playing off of personal experience.

However, something must have worked, because a few hours later, they were brought out of the cupboard and separated.

Irene saw Moriarty first. His gaze, violating as ever, burned her as he inspected the changes to her appearance. "A baby?" he asked, sounding almost giddy about the idea of a new addition to the highly instable web he had crafted for himself.

"Yes," Irene answered, trying to save face.

She knew that he was behind Kate's murder and no matter what Sherlock may have done in the past, Irene and Moriarty's relationship was completely separate from his role in her life. There was a reason for actual vengeance against Moriarty.

Moriarty stepped towards her, his gait cocky and melodramatic. Just as Irene thought that maybe he would just shoot her and get it over with, he punched her in the face, knocking her to the ground. He began kicking her, but when the silicone of the belly caused his foot to bounce back unnaturally, he crouched down and shoved both of his hands onto her breasts. His hands lingered there for far too long before he turned his attention down to the belly. In a sickeningly gentle gesture, he tentatively placed his hands on her belly, seeing what was going on.

Because that was not enough, Moriarty lifted up Irene's shirt and smoothed his hand over the prosthetic. Even he had been fooled by the appearance. "I knew you weren't pregnant. Whores like you shouldn't have children. Besides, your breasts are too small. It's a shame though… if you had managed to actually get knocked up, it might have saved your life," he said as he swiftly slammed a knife into Irene's back.

She let out a squeak and then ripped herself away from him. "Dress-up time is over," he sang as he flipped the knife back closed and slid it into his coat pocket. "Sherlock… oh, Sherlock! Come out, come out wherever you are! Come play!"

Sherlock heard Moriarty's voice echoing through the abandoned warehouse, but instead, turned his attention to the last sniper. One silent blow to the head and an injection of muscle inhibitor, Sherlock brushed himself off and stealthily made his way through the hallways towards Moriarty's voice.

When he heard three loud bangs, he stopped dead and just knew that there would be a dead body awaiting him when he reached Moriarty. He closed his eyes, counted to three, and then began walking briskly. The sinking feeling he had in his gut only intensified until he reached the end of the hall and found an open area, seeing two bodies on the ground.

He cursed under his breath as he ran over to the bodies. Irene let out a moan before she pointed over to Moriarty. There was absolutely no denying that the man was dead. Sherlock turned his attention back to Irene. "You're bleeding," Sherlock observed as he crouched down to help Irene up.

"I can't breathe," she gasped weakly. "Ribs…"

Sherlock lifted the loose shirt that was sopping in blood and saw that there was an oozing wound right below her left breast. "Dammit," he growled as he applied pressure and she let out a hiss.

"I'm sorry. Is there some way we can get this thing off of you? You need to be able to breathe as much as possible without being able to use your lung. I suspect it's been punctured."

He supported her head and shoulders as she sat up. She leaned against him as he undid the back of her prosthetic, cursing at the intricacies of the garment. Once he had everything unfastened, he peeled it off of her, the blood serving as an excellent adhesive, and tossed it aside. There was another wound on her back, which was likely a contributing factor to the volume of blood on the ground next to them. Irene's breaths were labored, but she seemed to have a better time breathing now. "If you die, I will kill you," Sherlock mumbled breathily, failing to see the contradictory nature of his threat.

Sirens rang out in the very early morning darkness. Irene was starting to shiver, perhaps from shock, but Sherlock very nearly lost his footing from the trembling he was trying to hide. Normally, the sight of blood didn't make him react as strongly as he was reacting. But then again, he had never had this much to lose before. If Irene died, he honestly had no idea what would happen to Winston.

The sheriffs arrived with the ambulance. Medics immediately started working on Irene, leaving Sherlock to the sheriffs. In a bizarre twist of events, Sherlock was of absolutely no use to the Santa Fe Police Department, panicking as soon as he saw just how much blood Irene had lost and how that might impact Winston. "The baby, the baby, the baby," he kept repeating as he paced the empty warehouse as the police tried to take a statement from him.

Because they couldn't get anything useful out of Sherlock, finally, one of the women on the police squad took him by the upper arms and stared him in the face. "What baby?" she asked. "Is she pregnant?"

Sherlock stopped his spiraling and shook his head. "He's with a neighbor. Winston. He's only a few months old and I don't know what will happen if she dies. She's his mother."

"Are you the father?"

"You know, I haven't the slightest idea what I am!" Sherlock exclaimed, letting out an involuntary laugh. "I don't know what I am to her, or to him, or to anyone! I'm supposed to be dead!"

He brought a hand up to his mouth, realizing what he had said. "I need to speak to the FBI or the CIA. Someone who will be able to get me in contact with the Scotland Yard or Mycroft Holmes. This isn't something that the Santa Fe Police Department can necessarily handle alone. What happened here is the final defeat of an international crime web that I have been working to take down for the last three years."

"Sir… we can't do that," the woman explained.

"Please. This is urgent."

"Why?"

"Because I destroyed my entire life for this cause."

"Sir, I think you are in shock."

"Yes, I think you are correct in that assumption."

She led Sherlock to an ambulance and loaded him in. Sherlock knew that he would be able to have access to a phone as soon as he reached the hospital, especially since he had informed the policewoman that there was a child who was in the care of another person who would need to be dealt with. As he expected, when they got him settled in a hospital bed, he was able to make phone calls. He was insistent upon being able to call the neighbor and possibly Mycroft before he would talk to any of the Santa Fe authorities.


	7. Chapter 7

Once Winston's situation was settled, Sherlock dialed in the number that he knew by heart, but would have never dared call if the situation weren't this dire. His heart nearly leapt out of his chest when he received an answer. "This is the office of Mycroft Holmes. May I inquire whom I am speaking to?"

"I need to be transferred to Mycroft immediately," Sherlock answered quickly.

"Sir, what is your name?"

"That is irrelevant."

"Sir, it is not irrelevant. I need to tell Mr. Holmes whom he is speaking with."

"Tell him it is an important call."

"Who are you, and how did you come by this number?"

"Tell him it is an important call," Sherlock repeated firmly.

"Sir, I cannot transfer your call to Mr. Holmes' line without knowing who you are and what your business is," the receptionist insisted.

"Tell Mycroft Holmes that this is of the utmost importance, especially in regards to his personal life. This is not a death threat, this is especially pertinent to him though."

"Sir, I need your name," she repeated firmly.

"You are not going to get my name, so stop being so foolish with your inane requests for it. Transfer me to Mycroft Holmes now!"

The line went dead. Sherlock sighed and hung up. He redialed the number and when she answered again, he started punching in numbers. "If you had simply fulfilled my request when I first asked for it, I wouldn't need to do this. Mycroft gave me this bypass number. Thank you for you exceptional services," Sherlock growled as the line clicked over, indicating that his call was being transferred.

"Good morning, this is Mycroft Holmes," a deep voice said.

Sherlock could hear a woman speaking in the background. "It could be dangerous!" she said in muffled tones. "He had some sort of a passcode… it's a breach of security!"

Mycroft must have sent her away, because the shrill tones of the woman's annoying voice went away, and the door closed behind her. Sherlock was now certain that Mycroft knew who was on the other line, and he was alive. Only two people knew that extension code. "Is it you?"

"Yes. I'm sorry for the ruckus that I caused. I'm surprised you didn't figure it out sooner."

"I've been tracking a series of unusual events around the world, all of which have followed a rather unique pattern. I've been hoping it was you. Rather mad, if you think about it, but… I'm glad to hear from you. Based on the area code and the pattern, can I infer that you are in New Mexico?"

"Santa Fe."

"Why, pray tell, are you in Santa Fe?"

"He led us here."

"Us?"

"Irene Adler is alive and well. Well… considering I am calling you from a hospital and Irene has suffered rather extensive injuries, she might not be well, but I'm hoping she is alive. For a number of reasons, but primarily because Moriarty's web has successfully collapsed."

"Miss Adler is alive?"

"Yes. Did you not hear what else I said?"

"I imagine that you are calling to inform me that you have gotten yourself into a rather sticky predicament with the local authorities."

"I need security clearances, not only for myself, but for Irene and her son."

"Miss Adler has a child?"

"Irrelevant. We need the clearances before the authorities start pulling away at things that need to remain under wraps for the time being. Can you do this?"

"What is the alias you are using?"

"David McKinnon."

"And Irene?"

"Anne McKinnon."

"Matching aliases?"

"You'll find the documentation explaining that within minutes of hanging up the phone."

"Who else would you like me to contact?"

"FBI, CIA, and the State Department."

"I will be there tomorrow."

"Thank you."

The call ended abruptly as Sherlock put the phone back down on the receiver and crossed his arms. The officer who was stationed near Sherlock glanced at him. "Are you ready to talk?"

"I told your colleague that I would not speak until the FBI and CIA were involved. Are they involved yet?"

"Why would we involve the FBI and the CIA?"

"That's yet to be disclosed," Sherlock explained. "You will have your answers within twenty-four hours."

The officer eyed Sherlock warily, but said nothing more. Sherlock had been read his Miranda Rights (despite the fact that he was not a citizen and the events surrounding the crime were potentially related to terrorist activity), and was well aware of the pressure he was putting on the Santa Fe Police Department. But for the sake of posterity, he needed to refrain from disclosing any details regarding his work until international channels were involved.

Irene and Sherlock were reunited in a room a few floors up from where Sherlock had been taken upon arrival. The neighbor who was caring for Winston showed up an hour after Irene was brought to the room, bearing the little boy to his emotionally and physically exhausted guardians. Fortunately, Winston didn't mind that both of his guardians were tired; he was content to be with them.

Sherlock sat on his bed, watching Irene's monitor. He periodically glanced into the baby carrier and saw that Winston was watching him intently. Winston had the propensity to be a bit unsettling whenever Irene was somehow incapacitated, always able to put Sherlock out of his comfort zone simply by watching him with such young eyes. Sherlock wasn't sure why such a small human, completely blank, could have such an impact, but Winston did.

When Irene awoke a few hours later, she let out a soft moan of pain. Sherlock, who had been dozing, snapped to attention and slipped out of his bed and over to hers. "Mycroft is on his way. We have officers stationed at the door. We do not speak until Mycroft is here. He has assured me that the FBI and the CIA will be involved and that we will be given higher security clearance. Winston has been accounted for; he's been fed and changed and is now asleep."

Irene blinked at him a few times. "I'm assuming I just came out of major surgery, and this is what you decide to say to me first?" she mumbled.

"Sorry. How are you feeling?"

"Dandy."

"Excellent."

"How is he?"

"Asleep. He was fussy earlier, but he was easily quelled with food."

"And you?"

"Some bruising, but nothing serious. You were just lucky."

"Yippee," she muttered.

She drew in a long breath and swallowed, trying to wet her dry throat. "Is he dead?"

Sherlock nodded, not wanting to answer aloud. He knew that the officer couldn't see him nodding, but Irene could. "Mycroft knows about you and Winston."

"He does?"

"He seemed to take it well."

"And what about you? How did he take the news that you're alive?"

"Aside from the bumbling twit he has as his secretary, the announcement went rather well."

"Bumbling twit?"

"She was useless. I ended up having to use an extension code to get to his office line. I was hoping I wouldn't have to resort to that, in case they were tracking the number."

She hummed in response, appearing to understand his meaning. "Did he tell you anything about John?"

"I didn't ask."

"Why not?"

"It wasn't one of those times where I could sit back and gossip incessantly with my brother."

She snorted. "I know, but I would figure that John would hold a place of high priority in your world."

He was silent for a moment. "From what I know, John has married."

"Oh?"

"Not gay," Sherlock added. "Lovely woman. I think she's a schoolteacher. The details I was able to dig up on her were few and far between. Not very useful."

"Are you going to contact John?"

"Let's take everything in stride. I'm not going to contact him until we are at least on the other side of the country, if not in London."

"Why wait so long?"

"Don't you think we've caused enough trouble in the States? At least London's equipped for our like," Sherlock laughed.

She smiled weakly. "Where is Winston?"

Sherlock turned around and unbuckled the straps that held Winston in his carrier. Even though he was getting better about carrying him around, Sherlock was still uncomfortable whenever he had to handle Winston when he was not in the carrier. Irene's entire face lit up when she saw the baby, and held her arms out to take him. Sherlock shook his head. "You'll drop him. I'll set him down."

Taking care to mind the tubes and wires that were hooked up to Irene, Sherlock placed Winston in between Irene's good side and her arm. He had been sleeping, but didn't seem to mind being woken up. After examining his surroundings, he closed his eyes again and went back to sleep. Irene seemed to relax just having the baby next to her, which made Sherlock a little calmer.

"If it's any condolence, I think you and John would have made a fine couple," Irene announced quietly.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Sorry?"

"It's obvious that you two maintained a high degree of affection for one another."

"But what makes you think that we would be a couple?"

"Perhaps couple is the wrong word for it. Partners?"

Sherlock grimaced and sat down in the chair next to Irene, Winston between them on the bed. He wanted to make sure that if the baby made a sudden movement that Irene couldn't react to, Winston wouldn't fall out of the bed. "What makes you think there was something more than a friendship?"

"I don't know any friends who would stick around through all the nonsense you put people through. That sort of commitment requires a stronger emotion or attraction."

"Are you describing yourself?"

She paused and blinked a few times. The drugs were still making her a little groggy, but she was coming out of the grogginess. In her drug-induced haze, perhaps she was drawing parallels between her relationship with Sherlock and John's relationship with Sherlock. "Maybe," she hummed. "I'm not quite sure."

"I can assure you, John would not have resorted to such degrading measures to get what he wanted if there was anything more than a friendship," Sherlock answered.

Irene chuckled, letting out a cough and a slight groan. "Are you going to leave at the first chance you get?"

Her question was rather jolting to Sherlock, who had already had a jolting day. "I'll make sure you two are settled before I file for divorce," he assured her. "But not until we have drafted a post-nuptial agreement."

"I'm not after your money, Sherlock," Irene sighed. "Based on how you live your life, I'm pretty sure all you have to your name is a human skull and an impressive dress shirt collection."

He chose to ignore her comment regarding his apparel. "But you are after power."

"Of course. Aren't we all?"

"No."

She looked at him pointedly. "Sherlock Holmes… you are a liar," she whispered, knowing that if she spoke any louder, the officer would probably come in and start asking questions.

"Look at what power does to people. You wanted power, and your life was completely eradicated. Moriarty wanted power, and well, look how that went for him."

"In both of those cases, you were the reason behind the loss of power."

He hesitated. "Not because I wanted the power. I wanted what was right. And right always trumps wrong, regardless of whether or not someone wants power or not. Things always have a way of working out the way they need to. If someone is doing something wrong or something isn't quite right, the universe rights itself, and the wrong is toppled and replaced with the right."

"So, are you saying that you are the ultimate power?"

"I am saying that if you are on the right side, meaning that you go about your life seeking justice and working to eradicate injustice, your side is ultimately the one that will come out on top."

"Indirect power. That's what you want."

"I want justice."

"Which is always indirect power."

"Why is everything a power-play with you?"

"Because that's how I lead my life."

"Why?"

"Why do you go around solving cases?"

"Because that's what makes my world work."

"There you go," Irene answered.

Winston moved in his sleep, grabbing at Irene's hospital gown and bringing his thumb up to his mouth. Sherlock looked out at the early morning light and stretched his back. "I need caffeine," he murmured as he stood up.

Irene's eyes tracked his every movement. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Justice, huh?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I'm not a fool."

"I know you aren't. But you could be just as brilliant on the other side. Why justice? And how do you know if you're right?"

"I'm where I need to be," he answered softly before he left the room.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us just assume, for the sake of this story, that Mummy Holmes was played by Helen Mirren.

Mycroft arrived right on time, armed with the promised documents. He met Sherlock at the main entrance, and in an extraordinarily rare act of affection, hugged his brother tightly. "How is she?" he asked quietly.

"Better. Her lung was slightly punctured, but she is expected to make a full recovery."

"And the child?"

"Winston is fine. Adjusting well to having her in the hospital. He slept through the night last night; the first time he's done that."

"And how long have you known about Miss Adler?"

"Known what?"

"That she wasn't quite dead?"

"Who do you think prevented her death?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed. "Why am I surprised?"

"But Winston was a surprise. I'm not entirely sure about what happened to produce him."

They reached the room and Irene smirked when she saw Mycroft. "I suppose you nearly had a heart attack when you heard that you hadn't quite gotten rid of me yet," she hummed.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and then noticed the small child curled up next to Irene. "Winston?"

"Yes. He's quiet for once," Sherlock remarked.

Mycroft was certain that Sherlock had seen the similarities that he, Irene, and Winston shared, but wanted to make sure that there weren't going to be any nasty surprises down the line. When neither Irene nor Sherlock were watching, Mycroft swabbed Winston's mouth for testing. Even if nothing of any great importance came from the sample, it would be nice to have Winston's genetic material and information on hand in the off chance that Mycroft needed the information. With the information that he had been bombarded with in the last twenty-four hours, he needed to catch up.

Sherlock and Irene gave their statements, secure in Mycroft's arrangements and their amnesty. The Santa Fe Police Department seemed satisfied with their answers, and Irene and Sherlock were released from the security of the police. They were free to go as soon as Irene could be discharged from the hospital.

A month later, they returned to London, the first time in almost five years for Irene, the first time in about three and a half years for Sherlock. They had heard little from Mycroft during the month interim period, save for receiving confirmation for their travel plans and the assurance that they would be allowed into the country without any trouble. Since they had nowhere to stay, Mycroft graciously allowed them to stay at his home.

What he failed to mention to them was that Mycroft had taken a few liberties with the information that he knew. Mycroft had informed the infamous Mummy Holmes that her youngest son was alive and was married to a lovely woman and had a son. Madame Holmes took much delight in the prospect of a grandson, and went about bragging to all of her socialite friends about the little boy whom she'd yet to meet.

There were a few other slight details that Mycroft had failed to mention to Sherlock or Irene, but those finer details were less shocking than the boisterous welcome that Mummy Holmes gave them as soon as they stepped out of their car at Mycroft's home.

The older woman swooped in and started cooing over her grandson before even acknowledging Sherlock. "Hello Mother," Sherlock muttered as he handed Winston to his mother.

"Hello darling… oh goodness. Look at those curls!" she squealed.

Irene shot a terrified glance back at Sherlock, but remained otherwise composed. She was wearing her old uniform, a form-fitting linen ivory dress paired with a pair of shiny black stilettos. Her hair had been dyed back to its natural color and was twisted up onto the back of her head. There was no indication that she had been stabbed in the side or the back and had punctured a lung only a few weeks earlier.

Mycroft stepped out to greet them, amused by the sight that he was met with. Winston was clearly a delight to Mummy Holmes, and Sherlock and Irene were clearly surprised by how out of their element they were. Regardless, Mycroft knew that they were pleased to be back in Britain and were itching to get back to some relative normalcy. "Mr. Holmes," Irene called. "I would like to speak to you regarding my status."

"Certainly," Mycroft answered smoothly as he led her into the house.

Sherlock stood outside awkwardly waiting for his mother to stop cooing over Winston, but when it became apparent that that was just not going to happen, he gathered their luggage and walked into the house. He placed their bags in their room (their room, in the sense that seemed as though Mycroft and/or Mummy seemed to be under the impression that their marriage was consensual) and then proceeded to wander the hallways for about half an hour.

When he tired of the wandering, he walked to the sitting room and peered inside. He saw that Irene sat back against the cream-colored sofa, cradling Winston's head against her chest. His downy hair contrasted sharply with the color of the fabric of Irene's dress and Mummy Holmes' sofa. His feet, swathed in cotton booties, dug into Irene's abdomen as he snuggled against her. Sherlock thought that she almost looked maternal in this moment, as he stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb, watching the situation unfold.

Mycroft walked up behind his brother. "Miss Adler says that she seeks asylum."

"She should be put in an asylum," Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft smirked slightly. "But considering Miss Adler, for all intents and purposes, is dead, this proves difficult."

"Send her back to Santa Fe. She will be fine there," Sherlock instructed.

"And then there is the matter of the child. Genetic testing shows some interesting information."

Mycroft tapped Sherlock's shoulder with a manila folder. Sherlock took the folder from his brother's hand and unwound the string that held the file closed. From the folder, he pulled the documents out and began to pore over them. His brow furrowed when he reached a particular place on the paper. "But that's impossible. Irene swears that she cannot have children. She cannot possibly be his mother," Sherlock remarked quietly to his brother.

Mycroft shrugged slightly. "She didn't carry the child?"

"It was her assistant, Kate, whom I suspect might have also been her lover."

Mycroft hummed in reply before gesturing for Sherlock to continue through the paperwork. "But that's hardly the most interesting part."

Sherlock paused as he glanced back up at his brother. Hesitantly, he looked back down at the document and turned the page. He let out a loud cough as he learned that Irene's statement regarding Winston's appearance, how Kate had chosen a donor that shared physical characteristics with Irene, had been absolutely true. "How in the world…" Sherlock murmured. "No."

Mycroft watched his brother intently. "You didn't know about this? I thought you two had somehow made an arrangement."

Sherlock gaped at his brother. "You honestly think I would have arranged for this to have happened? You honestly think I would have allowed for my genetic material to be passed along to another human being?"

"Not necessarily, but then again, I didn't think you would ever marry, and look how wrong I was in that assumption."

Mycroft smirked at the scowl his brother gave him. "What are you insinuating, Mycroft? What is it that you need me to do?"

"That child, by this documentation, is your flesh and blood. Since Miss Adler is your wife and his both his biological and legal mother, you have an obligation to this child."

"No, I don't. I did not enter into either of these situations willingly, and I can prove that this is the case in both situations."

"Sherlock, he's your son!" Mycroft hissed. "Don't you understand that? That child, that very small boy over there, is your child, which means that he is my nephew. And despite my feelings towards Miss Adler, I have every intention of taking care of my kin. If you choose to abandon them, I will take up the slack, and I can assure you, you would much rather I didn't."

"I am married to a woman whom I have no recollection of marrying, and I apparently have a son whom I had no part in creating. Please explain to me why I should… care!" Sherlock hissed. "Besides, isn't caring a disadvantage?"

Mycroft sighed. He knew that the conversation that he and his younger brother had had a few years previous would eventually come back to cause him problems. It was imperative that Mycroft handle this matter with his brother in the most delicate of manners. "Sherlock, look at your life. You have no one and nothing beyond these walls. You have Mummy, Winston, Irene, and me. You do not have Dr. Watson, you do not have a real home, and you do not have your life. You are still at liberty of one of the most extensive crime webs in history, despite the fact that you have successfully taken it down—congratulations on that, by the way. But my point is: you have nothing except for what is right here. And you cannot see that."

"Since when did you become the manager of my life?"

"When you became incapable of seeing what you have in it."

"And what do you mean, I don't have John?"

"John has gotten married and has moved out of London. He and his wife have a child on the way. I sincerely doubt that John will be joining you on your future escapades."

"What about Mrs. Hudson? What about Molly Hooper? What about Lestrade?"

"Dr. Hooper has married and also has a child on the way."

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"She is still at 221 Baker Street. Not as healthy as she was when you fell, I'm afraid to report, but she is doing fine."

"Lestrade?"

"Still at Scotland Yard."

Sherlock looked back into the room and saw Winston grabbing at Irene's face. Irene was blissfully unaware that Sherlock was very upset with the situation and wanted her as far away from him as humanly possible. "Mummy is aware of Winston's paternity?"

"She was the one who drew my attention to the uncanny resemblance. A photo of Winston could easily be mistaken of one of your own."

"Which means that she certainly knows about Irene."

"Of course she knows that you are married."

"Excellent," Sherlock sighed as he drew his hand through his hair and braced his other hand on his hip.

"You know, if the pretenses for the relationship with Irene were not as tenuous and compromising as they are, she would make a fine wife. And without a doubt, Winston will be able to get into the best schools in the country. Doctor or a lawyer, most definitely. He could be quite useful."

"You are not using Winston as a pawn in your little games," Sherlock snapped. "He is not a plaything for you. I don't understand why you or Irene can't comprehend that thought. You two seem to think that he is something that can be manipulated without consequence. He is a child, not a resource."

"You do care about him."

"Not enough to raise him."

"Or enough to know that you shouldn't raise him," Mycroft pointed out.

"I am not father material. Everyone knows that."

"In my experience, things happen for a reason, and that reason may not be immediately obvious, but once you see and understand that reason, things make sense."

"Are we going to completely gloss over the fact that somehow, my genetic material was obtained from me without my knowledge or consent and was used to create another human being?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"I will have someone look into the matter," Mycroft assured him.

Mycroft provided Sherlock with the various documents pertaining to Winston and left Sherlock to his own accord. There was only one thing left to do: confront Irene. She had left the sitting room and had retreated to the bedroom for Winston's nap.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for nonconsensual sexual contact and drug use.

Sherlock walked into the room and folded his arms across his chest. "I should have known that he was my progeny as soon as I heard how ridiculous his name is," he remarked.

Irene glanced up from Winston, who was squirming around on a pale blue blanket that Mummy had offered as a token of goodwill, hoping to see more of her surprise of a grandchild. Irene smirked. "Winston is not a ridiculous name, _Sherlock_ ," she replied.

Sherlock strode into the room and dropped a folder next to Irene's leg. "Mycroft provided me with these documents. It would appear as though Kate actually had a different name in mind for him."

Irene flipped open the folder. "His birth certificate?" she asked.

"Had it sent in from San Francisco. Kate apparently had some trouble with the pregnancy and went to a specialist at Stanford. He was born prematurely—not too early though, only a few weeks."

"What are you trying to prove with this?"

"Just look at the name."

She glanced at the document, reading through each of the fields and at the information that Kate had provided at the time of Winston's birth. "Based on the information provided here, it appears as though you and Kate knew that this would happen," Sherlock observed. "Adler-Holmes? Listing me as the father? Oh, you knew this would happen, didn't you?"

Irene's face fell. "Why do you insist on calling me out on these matters in such a cruel manner? You know that this was all done in order to secure my safety. You knew that when you woke up in the Vegas hotel room."

Sherlock shook his head. "By that logic, you've been securing your safety for quite some time then. Unless you've been following me for the better part of the last three years, there is no way you would have been able to secure a genetic contribution from me to complete one piece of your little game."

"What are you insinuating?"

"How many times have you drugged me and taken advantage of me in that state? And be honest. I think we are far past ever being able to litigate this mess."

"When… it happened… it was before I had any intention of using this as a means of getting ahead. You were drugged, but it was before my life fell to shambles."

"How?"

She stared at him. "You want to know?"

"Irene, we are talking about very serious violations of personal space and rights here. My patience with you is quickly running out, and I need you to be honest with me. I need to know how Winston came to be."

Her eyes quickly darted down to the baby, who was looking between his parents, trying to decipher what their angry voices might mean. "Are you trying to justify his existence?"

"No. Only trying to reconcile it."

"Why?"

"Answer the question, Irene. How did he come to be?" Sherlock growled.

She flushed bright red and clenched her fists. "I can't…" she whispered.

"You have to."

"Sherlock… I can't."

"Irene, I am begging you. Please. I need to know how this happened. I have let this go without being discussed for long enough. I don't understand how you can take such liberties with a life that you are not a part of, let alone understand. You have violated me now several times, in such ways that are not easily fixed, if at all. I can't just erase Winston, and this divorce is not going to be pleasant. The very least you could do to help me find some peace of mind is to explain how Winston came to be," Sherlock pleaded.

Irene knew she was wrong for reacting to Sherlock begging, literally telling her that he was begging her, but as far as she was concerned, this relationship was still a game. It was still a power play with Sherlock, who was indecisive about whether or not he was going to struggle to be the dominant one in the relationship or lay to the wayside and let Irene do her thing.

But this was not a power play. Right now, he wasn't looking for her to dominate him, or vice versa. He was simply seeking answers, just as he always did. He wasn't looking to lord this over her for the rest of her days; the nature of this truth already plagued Irene's conscience. He was being human. This was Sherlock in his rawest form: the defeated looking for answers to repair his life.

Irene hadn't won. All she had gained was a mere sliver of the life she might have had had she not been bested by Sherlock. Now, she had a son who, morally speaking, should not exist, and a husband who wanted nothing more than to expel her from his existence.

"It was when I returned your coat," she finally admitted quietly and solemnly.

"After you drugged me?" Sherlock verified.

She gave a curt nod. "Kate and I had been looking for donors at that point and we hadn't found any donors that we found suitable."

"Was this a multi-person endeavor?"

"Not after Kate and I quickly agreed that we wanted you as the donor."

He drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes. Sherlock nodded, indicating that he wanted Irene to continue. "The drug I injected you with included a drug that aids in male sexual performance. We had tested this with a few other clients before we found you, so we knew how long it would take before I could come in and… collect."

"But you injected me with the drug because I refused to give you your phone."

"Yes. The drug is rather effective in regards to knocking people out. It doesn't necessarily have to be used for the purpose it had when collecting your genetic contribution," Irene explained.

"You decided that you wanted me to be the donor after you injected me with the drug?"

"That is correct."

He turned away from Irene and ran a hand through his hair as he tried to formulate what to say next. "You didn't have sex with me to obtain what you came for, did you?" he finally asked.

"No. A condom and a…"

"Right. I don't need to know more."

He didn't turn back around immediately, but when he did, he hurried over to the bed, making Irene move back. When he reached for Winston, she let out a cry. "Don't hurt him! He didn't do anything!" she exclaimed, throwing the heel of her palm into his chest.

Sherlock moved back slightly, grabbed Irene's wrist gently, and moved it off of him. "I'm not going to hurt him. I just don't want him near you anymore," he explained quietly as he lifted Winston off of the bed. "He's already had his life destroyed enough by being given one."

Sherlock brought Winston up to his shoulder and turned his attention back to Irene. "I don't want you here anymore. I want you to go back to America and have nothing to do with either of us. I don't want him with you. You don't deserve to keep what you stole, whether it's him or it's me. We are not your little prizes. You will get nothing in the divorce settlement, and you will not get any parental rights. You are, for all intents and purposes, dead."

Irene's eyes began to water and she stood up from the bed. "Sherlock…" she gasped as she began to follow him out of the room. "Please!"

He stopped and spun around, causing Irene to nearly crash into him. "When will you learn not to play with fire? Don't you know that if you touch it or play with it incorrectly, you will get burnt?"

"How is taking Winston away from me the right thing? You're no better than Moriarty!"

"Maybe not, but as long as I am better than you, I'm doing the right thing. Anyone who feels they have the right to steal something and violate someone for their advancement, even if the consequences are more than they handle, is not on the right side. They are not doing the right thing, and there is certainly no way I can allow them to benefit from their actions. Winston is better off not knowing that you exist."

"But he's the only thing I have," she murmured, the tears streaming down her face now.

"That's not my problem."

"Sherlock!"

"Irene, when the only way you can have anything of value in your life is by stealing, that speaks volumes about your character and how you have chosen to live your life. I may not have much in my life, but what I do have is rather remarkable. I haven't had to steal anything and I have no need to steal anything. That is why I am on the right side. Why I am on the side of justice."

Her entire body was trembling now. "Sherlock," she pleaded tearfully.

"Your safety does not justify the actions that you have taken. You are not a good person, Irene Adler. Your life does not require safety. You play on the wrong side, and you will get what is coming. Don't you see that? Have you learned nothing from our experiences? You know what I am capable of. You are not impervious to me and my actions, just as I am not impervious to you or your actions. But you should know by now, there is a reaction for every action, and your harmful actions incur my even more acerbic reactions. And why would you want your child in the middle of that?"

"You don't even want him!" Irene bellowed.

Winston began to scream against Sherlock's shoulder, severely distressed by the anger he was being inundated with. Sherlock drew in a deep breath and patted the infant's back, trying to comfort him. "No, I didn't. And there may come a time when I won't want him, but that does not negate the overwhelming desire I have to keep him away from you."

"I made a mistake," Irene sobbed.

"I wouldn't classify your actions as a mistake. That implies that you didn't have enough foresight to see what could happen. You are far too smart to make mistakes like that. You knew exactly what you were doing and knew exactly how the cards would fall."

"Sherlock… please. Please don't take him away from me. He is all that I have. He is my only family."

"I don't trust you with him. I don't want him being with you without me being there too. And I don't want to be with you. You sicken me."

Winston's cries only intensified, making Irene's anger and despair intensify in suit. "Please just let me comfort him," she pleaded.

"You used me! You used me for no good reason! I mean, if you had a legitimate reason and were worth something, sure, maybe I'd be able to figure out how to even legitimize your actions a little bit. But you used me for your own safety. You didn't even care about the safety of anyone else."

"That's not true!"

"No… you are correct; you were concerned about the wellbeing of Winston. But he was only part of you using me. Without using me, he would have never existed, and therefore, would have never been an issue."

Mycroft, hearing the noise from Irene and Sherlock's fight, came walking down the hall and saw the distraught nature of the three. "What is going on?" he asked Sherlock.

Sherlock turned and handed Winston to Mycroft. "Please take him; have Mummy comfort him and feed him. Irene and I need to resolve a few matters and we need to have neutral territory. Winston is hindering this process."

Irene lunged toward Mycroft. "No!" she yelled. "No. He stays!"

Sherlock held her back. "Irene. Stop."

She turned and slapped Sherlock across the face. Mycroft adjusted Winston so that if he needed to run, he would be able to run with the baby. Sherlock, however, recovered quickly and grabbed Irene and lifted her off of the ground. He was able to defy her flailing limbs and carried her back into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Irene kept screaming and hitting him, each of her hits coinciding with her sobs. "Sherlock, don't take him away from me," she wailed as she slammed her head into his chest.

"Irene, pull yourself together," Sherlock commanded in a calm voice.

She ripped herself away from Sherlock's hold and threw herself across the room from him. She began hurling things at him until she finally collapsed onto the ground and fully committed to her sobbing. Her makeup was completely destroyed by this point, and her hair had fallen out of the coif she had spent some time pulling together that morning. Her clothing, no matter how high-end or stylish it was, did not uphold its haute couture in the state she was in.

"This isn't about Winston, is it?" Sherlock finally asked when she had calmed down.

Through her tears, she glanced up at him. "Kate was the love of my life," Irene hiccupped.

She rolled over onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. Sherlock stood up from his spot against the bedroom door and approached her cautiously. He sank down to the floor, the new spot about six feet away from Irene. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"She gave me everything… things I didn't even know I wanted. In the end, she gave two lives for me… hers and Winston's. She wanted a baby so badly… I wasn't too keen on the idea of kids, but because I was just so madly in love with her, I warmed to the idea. We tried for a baby for four years, but nothing seemed to work. My eggs were viable, and in theory, I should have been able to get pregnant, but none of the fertility treatments worked. I swear, I don't think I've ever had a more emotional point in my life, and my puberty years were horrendous."

Sherlock knew that she was trying to make a point of lightening the conversation, but he didn't want the conversation to be light. He wanted Irene to be honest, not charming. This conversation was not light or easy. This was their life, their future, in question, and there was hardly anything light or easy about it. They had yet to resolve their extraordinarily difficult problems; hell, they had hardly begun to even address their problems, let alone solve them. And so, he let her speak. He had just threatened to take her child away from her, and he was starting to see that he didn't have the full story. Sherlock needed the whole story in order to justify taking the baby away from her and destroying her life again. He wasn't sure why he needed the whole story; he was just compelled to hear it and begin to fit the rationale together. Her story was quickly becoming his story, so it was important to fit everything together to gain perspective on this mess.

"It was two months before you and I met when I finally had to tell her that I was done trying to get pregnant. We were just wasting our time when we could just as easily adopted a baby instead of trying to have one. Of course, the logistics of that would have been tricky, but I digress. Kate decided that she still wanted to try; we still had my eggs, but no donor. We had gone through several donors at that point, and at that point, we were starting to get desperate. She started the fertility drugs to do IVF, and was good to go when you showed up at my front door. As you can probably imagine, that threw a wrench into our plans."

Irene was on a roll with her narrative. Sherlock let her continue.

"I knew that you would be perfect because you had the wit that we wanted. We wanted a smart child, one that would be perfect, and charming, and witty, and the best of Kate and the best of me, even though that wasn't actually possible. But when you ripped our lives out from under our feet, our plans changed and babies weren't in our future. We had to adjust to my demise; the life you set up for me was adequate, but it did not allow much room for Kate. Once we got her settled out in the States with me, we turned our attention back to babies. When we found out you had committed suicide and Moriarty started in with his sly little tricks, those plans went out the window again. But then I figured out that you weren't really dead. That gave us hope. We started thinking about babies again, except Kate wasn't nearly as devious in her thoughts about babies. My thoughts were mostly concerning how I could use this as leverage against you."

He continued to let her speak. In all honesty, he hadn't the slightest idea how to respond to something like this. He was certain that she was being sincere. The tears were far from feigned, and there was no way Irene would have ever let him into such intimate details of her life if there weren't some barrier knocked down somewhere. They both knew that Sherlock was not above bending to Irene's will and would prevent Irene from seeing Winston. This was not the time for games. They had ruined all of the games.

"I wasn't aware that Kate still had access to my eggs or your sperm; I was under the impression it was her egg and the sperm of a donor that looked quite like me. That's what she told me. I don't know why she lied to me. Maybe she was scared that something would happen to the baby if I knew the truth. Regardless, my scheming seemed to have more of an impact than I had anticipated."

She paused for a moment before turning her head to look at him and bracing herself up onto her elbows. "Sherlock, I may very well be a bloody awful mother, but I am his mother, and I deserve a chance to at least try. You said that the universe puts you where you need to be… why am I here if I'm not supposed to be here? Why are we here if we aren't supposed to be here? Why is Winston here if he isn't supposed to be here? Why are we needed for this?"

Sherlock still had no idea how to respond to this. He was now completely convinced that she was telling the truth. She had not demonstrated any of the typical and atypical signs of lying. He had become quite accustomed to her manner of speech and knew when she was lying most of the time. Her sincerity had become easier to gauge, and based on the story she had just shared with him, Sherlock was confident that he could interpret her story as true. Of course, this didn't mean that he would ever be able to trust her. She had proven time and time again that she was not a trustworthy entity in his world, but right here, he could trust that she was telling the truth.

"Sherlock?" she asked him.

It surprised him when he actually was able to find words to say to Irene. "I will never be able to completely trust you."

"I know," she murmured.

"And I will never be able to completely understand how you were able to rationally justify your actions. You were acting on emotion alone."

"Yes."

"And I do not like the idea of having you in Winston's life. At least not alone. But I honestly cannot see myself in your life or vice versa. I do not want him with you alone. And right now, I don't want you in his life."

Her breathing became shaky again. "We have a lot of work."

"Are we working through something?" she asked him.

"I'm not sure."

"What are you talking about then?"

"I have a lot to process, and this is not something that we need to figure out all at once. But for now, I just want you to know where I am. I've just found out that I have a child I didn't know could exist, and is apparently at the heart of a very elaborate scheme to screw me over. I don't know about you, but I don't know how to really react to that."

She nodded slowly, appearing to understand his point. "Can I see him?"

"If you make a run for it, you won't make it far," he warned her as he stood and left the room.

She quietly padded after him down the hall. When he turned into the sitting room, but stopped abruptly in his tracks, Irene stopped a few steps behind him. "Mycroft… what is this?" Sherlock asked quietly.


	10. Chapter 10

Irene stepped closer to the door and looked around Sherlock to see what he was talking about. She let out a small gasp when she saw that John Watson was holding her son. "John?" she asked in surprise.

Sherlock glanced down at her before he stepped fully into the room. John looked confused as soon as he realized that it had been Irene who had spoken. "Mycroft, you didn't mention that," John told Mycroft.

"That's another recent development," Mycroft muttered as he stood up from his seat.

Irene strode quickly over to John to retrieve Winston. She blinked away some of the remnant tears that were still impeding her ability to see, but as soon as she had the baby in her arms, she smiled at him and walked out of the room, leaving Sherlock, John, and Mycroft to deliberate over the recent events. "How long have you been here?" Sherlock asked John quietly.

Instead of answering, John punched Sherlock in the face. After picking himself up off the ground, Sherlock let out a heavy sigh and stepped away from John. "Clearly, you are not ready to talk," Sherlock muttered as he walked out of the room.

John groaned and hurried after Sherlock. "Sherlock. We do need to talk."

Sherlock spun around to face John, who stopped up short, a foot in front of Sherlock. "Do you know anything about the situation at hand? Do you honestly think I need this right now? You're supposed to be a point of sanity, not a contributor to the insanity!"

"Mycroft mentioned you had a child. If I had any sense, I would have known it was Irene's. He said you were married too. At first, that didn't make any sense, but now that I can infer you're married to Irene, that makes complete sense."

"How long have you known that I was alive?"

"Mycroft informed me about a year and a half ago that he had seen some interesting patterns in world crime activity and that he thought that there was a remote possibility that you were somehow connected to it."

"A year and a half then?"

"Yes.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to keep calm. For some reason, he found this difficult.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, terribly sorry."

"Moriarty, right?"

"Of course."

John looked thoughtful for a moment. "Well, he's over, right?"

"Irene turned out to be pretty useful despite all the trouble she is."

Sherlock smiled slightly when John chuckled. "Cute kid. Looks exactly like you. Winston?"

"You already know all of this. Mycroft doesn't have the reputation to be careless to detail."

"It's been three years. I'm allowed to ask questions."

Sherlock shrugged and kept walking. "Are you just going to keep walking away from me, or are we going to be able to talk?"

"Irene and I have just had a row regarding Winston and the many intricacies that he provides to our relationship. I honestly need to just think. I haven't been able to think in a very long time. Having a screaming infant and uncontrollable criminal under my watch doesn't make for optimum thinking conditions. Is it at all possible that we have this conversation later?" Sherlock asked, surprising John with the answer Sherlock provided.

"Yeah… that's fine. I'll come find you later," John assured Sherlock.

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured before he continued walking down the long hallway.

A few hours later, John found Sherlock sitting in an abandoned hallway, his head in his hands. "I'm sorry for punching you earlier," John called out to him.

Sherlock looked up. "After dealing with Irene for the last few hours, I'm used to it. But I appreciate your apology," he replied quietly.

John walked over to Sherlock and sat down next to him. "So what do you do now? Mycroft briefed me on the situation."

Sherlock shrugged. "I can't be a father. But she can't be a mother, so I'm going to have to be his father."

"It's not too hard. I mean, Mary and I have had trouble, but we've gotten over it. Once you've got a routine and know how to adjust according to the personality of your kid, it's not impossible. Plenty of people have managed," John explained.

Sherlock smiled and laughed gently. "I have no idea how I'll explain this to him though. How do you explain to a kid that their mother was certifiably insane and eventually just flew off the handle and ended up losing all coherency and therefore, was deemed an unfit parent? Knowing how I was as a child, Winston's probably going to be demanding answers to that question at the ripe age of three."

"You'll figure it out."

There was a comfortable silence that fell between them. Observing the gold band on John's ring finger, Sherlock felt this was a good opportunity to find out more about John's new life. "How is Mary?"

John eyed him warily, unfamiliar with a Sherlock who was concerned about other people. "Um… she's fine. Busy with the baby. A little girl. Amelia."

"Amelia Watson? Good name. Normal name."

John nodded in agreement. "It's Mary's mother's name. She passed away a few years ago, and when we found out that the baby was a girl, we knew that there was no other choice for her name. Amelia Florence Watson."

"Significance of Florence?"

"We went there on our honeymoon."

"Ah, of course. Sentiment."

John snorted and cleared his throat. "So, what the hell were you thinking when you named him Winston? I would peg you two to name your kid after a influential leader like Churchill, but I mean… come on… honestly?"

Sherlock laughed out loud, surprising himself by how readily laughter came to him despite the fact that he was, quite likely, about to embark on a nasty custody battle and divorce. "I didn't name him. The name came with him. Do you remember Kate?"

"Kate… no. Who is Kate?"

"Irene's lover."

"She had a lover named Kate?"

"Yes. She was the house staff member… the redhead."

"Ah, yes… I vaguely recollect a redhead. What about her?"

"Irene can't have kids. She and Kate tried to have kids, with Kate serving as the surrogate of sorts. Kate was the one who gestated Winston, and since Irene was not present at the birth, Kate named him Winston. Winston Charles Adler-Holmes."

"Jesus… that's a British name if I ever heard one," John laughed. "Have you thought of calling him Charlie?"

"The thought briefly crossed my mind when we first acquired him, but we didn't know what his middle and last names were. We were only given the name Winston. By the time we learned his full name, the name had grown on me. May as well accept the fact that he's probably going to be a pretentious twit like me."

"I'm impressed by how well you have begun to see yourself," John remarked. "I think I can get used to this self-deprecating roll you're on."

"Well, I figured that since I keep seeming to find myself in these predicaments, I should probably start paying attention to why this might happen. I have a wife and a son that I obtained from very little effort of my own."

John gave a hearty laugh as he imagined how Irene could have possibly lassoed Sherlock into marriage. "She drugged you, didn't she?"

Sherlock looked at John with a pointed look. "She needs to find a new method. Her current method is rather tedious."

A momentary lull fell between the two men. "Are you going to press charges? You know… for how Winston came to be?"

Sherlock swallowed and drew in a long breath. "I can't possibly see how I could. I mean, logistically speaking, both women who were responsible for this are, for all intents and purposes, dead. Kate is physically dead, but Irene Adler does not exist anymore. Her official name is Anne McKinnon. And considering that point, since my documentation says that my name is David McKinnon and I'm married to her, it'd be impossible to prove that any foul play occurred. Irene is a professional criminal; she knows all the loopholes."

"But from an ethical standpoint…?"

"Haven't a clue," Sherlock sighed.

"Well… have you talked to her about it?"

"Of course we have talked about it. And while I believe Irene's answer to be genuine, it's remarkably difficult to reconcile all the facets of my argument, her argument, and the reality of it all. I've told her that I don't want Winston with her, and as you can imagine, she took that well. I can't be with her, but I don't know if I could raise Winston on my own. Between a rock and a hard place, I guess."

"The fact that you'd even consider raising Winston is a little unexpected from you, Sherlock," John pointed out. "Maybe you're more equipped than you thought?"

"I managed to put his jumper on backwards yesterday. Irene didn't see him until five hours after I dressed him, so he had his jumper on backwards for five hours," Sherlock laughed. "How on earth is this a good idea?"

John furrowed his brow in confusion. "How did you manage to put his jumper on backwards? Was there any sort of print on the front?"

Sherlock smiled slightly. "For some reason, it made sense that a design of a dog would go on the back versus the front. Is the lack of sleep common among all people who care for small children?"

"Yes, Sherlock. Babies often cause sleep deprivation," John assured his friend.

"How long does that last?"

"I don't think it ever ends, to be quite honest. I know what once Amelia is older and can sleep through the night without waking up I'm still going to be up worrying about whether or not she is breathing okay. And then once she's a lot older I'm going to be up worrying about other things, such as if she's still in bed or in the house."

"Why would she not be in the house?"

"Sneaking out to be with friends?" John suggested.

Sherlock nodded in understanding before looking down at his clasped hands. "In my rational mind, I know that I can't have Irene in my life. She can't be around Winston and I should not forgive her."

"Maybe you could?"

"I've put myself in a lot of situations where I could be harmed or impacted, but never have I ever put myself in the situation where I expected that to happen. With Irene, she is never going to be able to feel like she has gotten her revenge. She will still lord the marriage and Winston over my head, and if I give in and give Irene what she wants—security and immunity—I am only reinforcing the behavior. I can't handle this via legal means, but I can't figure out how to handle it via ethical means either. Not without completely destroying Winston's life."

"Well, you also have to take into consideration why she would have felt that it was necessary… why would she do something like that?"

"It's a struggle for power. She knows that because I keep myself apart from most things, by forcing me into something that requires that I am actively part of a union, whether it is a marriage or parenthood, she can keep me where she wants me. She's terrified. She's been running for her life, so it's beyond me why she would have thought producing a child would be a good idea. I have this sinking feeling that Winston is going to be the downfall of Irene Adler."

"The marriage and the kid were weapons?"

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed.

John thought for a moment before he looked at his friend with a suspicious look. "Why not turn it back on her?"

"Sorry?"

"Turn them back on her. If she's holding it over your head, hold it over her head."

Slowly, a smile appeared on Sherlock's face. "I've already told her that litigating the divorce will bode well for her. But, if I don't file for divorce…"

"She wants protection. If she's your wife, she's kin to Mycroft."

"She'll get everything she wants."

"Exactly."

"John, when did you become so devious? This could have been useful a few years ago."

John shrugged, trying not to remember the trauma of seeing Sherlock jump. "But what if she doesn't go with that plan?"

"Oh, she'll go with it. She has quite a few prices on her head, so this will seem like the best route."

"But what about Winston?"

"Well, that will prove more difficult. I'll think of something," Sherlock promised.


	11. Chapter 11

A few hours later, Sherlock was in bed, uncharacteristically emotionally exhausted. He wasn't really sure how to process this new type of exhaustion, but decided that going to bed was the best way to combat it. After he was in bed, Irene slipped into the room and set Winston down onto the bed. He was asleep, dressed in pajamas. She sat down on the bed next to Winston and watched Sherlock until he acknowledged her. "Yes?" he asked quietly as he looked over the book he was reading.

"I'm leaving."

"Oh?"

"Mycroft had paperwork drafted up."

"For what?"

"Our divorce papers," she replied.

Sherlock knew they were fake. "Oh."

"Yes. So, I suppose there isn't much reason to draw this out longer than necessary."

"Do you have plans to return?" Sherlock asked, trying not to sound interested.

She shrugged as she fingered the fabric of the duvet. "You've made your point quite clear."

"Don't put this on me, Irene. You brought this on yourself."

"I know."

"Do you?"

"He's asleep. Don't do this now."

"When do you suggest we do this? You're leaving."

"What does it matter? What purpose does this serve?"

He set his book down and stared at her. "I still don't understand why you did it. I mean, I can superficially understand it: love makes you do things that may have a lasting consequence; revenge is a bitch. But beyond that, I don't see it. I mean, I know you're insane and there might be some psychological reason behind it, but I'd like to believe that you're smarter than this."

She was quiet and pensive. "I really have no one. Both of my parents are dead. Dad died from a heart attack; Mum died from lung cancer. I never had any siblings, and my extended family is virtually nonexistent. Kate is gone; I have no friends. I run around, playing, trying to keep away from the loneliness. It is crippling. It drives people to desperation, to the point of insanity, where very little is off limits because there is nothing to lose. That's where I am right now. I have nothing to lose."

"That's not true."

"Well, now it's not. But before Winston, when we first met, it was the case."

"Did she know?"

"Did she know what?"

"That you love her?"

"I hope so."

"Did you ever tell her?"

Irene furrowed her brow as she thought. Her face slowly changed into a look of dismay as she came to the realization that she never had actually told Kate how she felt. "I don't think so."

"That's your problem."

Irene scoffed. "Because I didn't tell my partner that I love her, I've gone and done all of these stupid things?"

"Yes. Because you failed to do the simplest of things, telling someone how you feel, you always felt inadequate and were compelled to go about and do these huge and showy gestures to prove your affections. In the process, you wrecked more than you know and changed more lives than necessary. All because you couldn't tell a girl that you love her."

She let out a bewildered laugh. "How did you become so wizened?"

"Not all of what John says is absurd rubbish," Sherlock explained vaguely.

Irene exhaled softly and gently took one of Winston's feet in her hand. "You'll look after him, right?"

"No, I was thinking I'd have Mycroft ship him off to one of those academies he's always going on about at the family dinners. Figured that priming him for a role in the government would be the best way to combat the wily intelligence and energy that he's sure to have inherited," Sherlock deadpanned.

Irene looked horrified until she caught the subtle sarcasm in Sherlock's tone. "You do that, and I'll…." Her voice faltered and she closed her mouth. "I actually don't know what I'd do. Seems as though I've done quite enough."

"I'm glad to see you're starting to see that," Sherlock answered.

"But you'll look after him; make sure he's healthy and happy?"

"I think he's both of those things right now."

"But in the future."

"Of course. He's got John, who I think has already decided that he's Winston's godfather."

"Are you going to ask him to be the godfather?"

"I think it goes without saying."

She smiled sadly, absently rubbing Winston's foot. Drawing in a breath, she stood from the bed, making sure not to jostle Winston. "I should go."

Sherlock picked up his book. "You should stay until morning. Mummy would be upset if you left without saying goodbye. For some reason, she's taken a liking to you."

Irene eyed him warily. "Are you sure?"

"Well, you should say goodbye to people."

"Are you trying to hint to something?"

"Don't be absurd. It's not like you to go out with a whimper after this elaborate production you've put on. I'm just allowing you to end things properly."

"End things properly?" she echoed.

He nodded without looking up from his book. "You can sleep on the floor if you want."

"Like a dog?"

"Exactly," he muttered.

Silently, Irene grabbed the pillows off of the empty side of the bed and dropped them on the floor. She collected spare blankets from the chest at the foot of the bed and laid them out next to the pillows before she settled down onto her makeshift pallet. It didn't take too long for her to fall asleep.


	12. Chapter 12

When she woke up the next morning, the curtains had been opened up. She didn't hear any noise in the bed above her. When she braced herself up to see who was still on the bed, no one was there. Quickly, she straightened her clothing and her hair before she went to find the other occupants of the home. The noise of John, Mycroft, Sherlock, Mummy Holmes, and Winston served as a good homing device for Irene.

The group was in the dining hall, conversing over a nicely prepared meal. If Irene wasn't about to abandon the group, she might have considered this her family. Mummy Holmes was the first to notice Irene's presence. "Oh, come sit," she urged Irene as she gestured to the table.

Irene joined them hesitantly, avoiding Sherlock's gaze. However, she did scan the table to see where Winston had ended up. He, of course, was in his grandmother's lap. She took some solace in the fact that Winston would have a female in his life. Despite Sherlock's stories of his mother's relative absence from most of his childhood, Irene still was comforted by the budding relationship between Winston and his grandmother. At least he would have some sort of a family once she was ousted from the Holmes estate.

Once breakfast was cleared from the table and conversation had died away, Irene slipped out of the dining room and retreated to the room to pack her few belongings. She knew that Sherlock was shipping her back to America, but wasn't sure what he had planned for her.

"I want you to get help," Sherlock's voice said from behind her.

"What sort of help, Mr. Holmes?" she asked stiffly.

"Psychological help. Mycroft has cleared your identity; Anne McKinnon has been legitimized as a British and American dual citizen. You won't have issues getting a steady job; he's arranged for that as well. You start in two weeks. I've done some investigating, and based on where you will be living, there are several psychiatrists who you should consider. But I am serious about you getting help."

"Why?"

"You're, for a lack of a better way of putting it, fucking insane."

She spun around and gaped at him. "Did Sherlock Holmes just curse?" she gasped.

"Oh, shut up. I've done it plenty of times before."

"But you've never sounded so crass when you've done it before. Now, I'm slightly offended by it."

"You should be. It wasn't a kind statement."

She didn't answer; her bags were her only focus at the moment. Fortunately, she hadn't had much time to unpack. Most of the work she was doing was unpacking Winston's things that had gotten packed in the same bags as her things. "One year."

"Must you be so cryptic?" Irene sighed.

"Let's see where you're at in one year. I'm sure I'll be running around after Winston, but I don't want you anywhere near London for one year. Once that year is up, we will reexamine where we are at and then decide from there what we will do."

"You make it sound like I have a say in the matter. All that I've heard you talk about are your plans and how I'm supposed to just go along with them."

"You will. I know you will. Of course, you do have the choice to completely walk away from the situation and live your life as you please. You do have that right. But, I know you won't walk away without just cause."

"You're using Winston as leverage."

"No, Irene. I'm holding you accountable for your actions. And since I can't really do anything else to right the situation, I am taking away the prize. Winston is involved, but his involvement is limited to just being the thing being taken away from you. You caused this, and now you have to figure out how to make it right given the circumstances."

She hated how rational Sherlock was being with this. He had only raised his voice to her a few times, but never in such a way that she was threatened by his actions. He was steady, calm, collected, and insufferably… justifiable. They were Yin and Yang: Sherlock the light, Irene the dark, with a spot of the other influencing the course of their lives. Irene knew that her life was now irrevocably intertwined with Sherlock's life, and knew that, despite her efforts to deny it, she respected him for how he was handling the dissemination of his life.

Their life, really. It really was their life now, with Winston as the center of it.

So, while there would probably never be any proclamations of love or adoration, probably be years of resentment and distrust from Sherlock, and immense amounts of disappointment and sadness, Irene knew that what he was offering her was the kindest form of punishment a human could give. He was asking her to leave so she could learn; he didn't want to destroy her life, he wanted her to pull it together. In his own way, he was showing sagacity and compassion. He recognized that she was simply a shell of the woman she had been when they first met, understanding what exhaustion that love and loss bring about in a human soul. Sherlock was, in a strange way, being her husband. He was serving his purpose as her husband in the sense that he was supporting her, helping her with her demons and helping her to become a better person.

But more importantly, he was being a father. Irene had always heard that men didn't really become fathers until after their child was born, while mothers became mothers the moment they learn of their child's existence. During the time that they had had Winston with them, only a matter of months, Irene had only felt mildly maternal towards Winston, whilst Sherlock had taken to the job quite well. He would never admit that he enjoyed it, but Irene knew better. There was no way that a man like Sherlock would put up with a person for that long and integrate that person into his life if he didn't like them, regardless of their relation.

Which is why Irene looked Sherlock in the eye and nodded. "Okay. I'll do it."

"You will?"

"You want what is best for Winston. I want what is best for Winston, and I understand why you want me to do this. So, I will uphold my part of the bargain," she promised.

He drew in a breath. "Thank you," he stated simply before he left the room.

After Irene said goodbye to the necessary persons, she got into the hired car, and was shortly on a plane back to America, back to the drawing board of her life to get everything figured out. She knew a few things for certain: she would be a divorcee by the end of the year came around, she would be in a better place psychologically, and most importantly, she would get to see her little boy again. That would have to be enough to get her through.


	13. Chapter 13

It wasn't until Winston became a British citizen that Irene saw her son again. Per Sherlock's requests, she returned to Santa Fe for a year and got her life together. They had agreed that she would have to acquire a job with an international company (Mycroft was able to help her with this) and seek some professional counseling. They were both very much aware of what was ahead of them in the future, but were confident that if Irene was able to get her life somewhat back on track and sort out the trauma that ensued with Kate's death, they would be in a better place to possibly be able to raise Winston.

On the other side of the coin, Sherlock also had to fulfill some terms of their agreement. Irene was not aware that Sherlock had anything to accomplish in the year of their separation, but Sherlock felt it was necessary to have done something by the time Irene returned. He had to reestablish his consulting detective firm. Since he wasn't keen on the idea of reuniting with his former identity, he maintained his alias of David McKinnon. 221B Baker was vacant when Sherlock returned, asking to rent out the flat again. He had brought Winston with him and had offered the baby to Mrs. Hudson as a peace offering. Sherlock had known that the little boy would delight Mrs. Hudson and in turn, he might be able to soften the blow that his return would provide.

The flat had been renovated in Sherlock's absence. It was no longer the dark space it had been; the walls had been painted a lovely cream color and there was no trace of the beige and black wallpaper that Sherlock had defaced. The floors had been replaced, and now, there were two bedrooms on one level instead of just the one. The kitchen had been updated and now had more counter space for Sherlock to work with.

And now, a year had passed and Winston was now a British citizen. It hadn't necessarily taken a year for the little boy's citizenship to be sorted, but Mycroft had figured it would be fitting if there were a celebration or some sort of a gathering that coincided with Irene's return, since Winston's first birthday fell within that year that Irene had been in America. (In fact, Winston's birthday had been rather pitiful; since no one had really taken note of what Winston's birthday was, the day almost came and went without any notice. It had been Mrs. Hudson, who had been made aware of all the vital information in the case that there was an emergency and Sherlock was not around, who had presented the little boy with his first cupcake and a small stuffed animal dog, thus reminding people that this was an important day.)

The car pulled up in front of 221 Baker Street, pulling over to the side of the street so Irene could collect her things and pay the cabbie. After paying the driver, she carried her two suitcases to the front door and rang the bell. Mrs. Hudson answered the door with a huge smile and hugged the younger woman. "Oh, come in! The party hasn't started yet, so you're in time!" Mrs. Hudson assured Irene.

Irene smiled and carried her suitcases up the staircase to the flat. Mrs. Hudson had gone back into her own flat, leaving Irene to make this walk alone, but Irene knew this building inside and out. She reached the top of the stair and stared at the door for a moment. She fanned herself with her hand for a brief second, trying to shake off her nerves and anticipate what she might find. Finally, she knocked on the door.

Based on the noise that came from inside the door, Irene could infer that there was at least one young child running around. She heard a woman's voice, but did not recognize the accent, so figured it must have been John's wife. She heard footsteps and finally heard the lock click. John opened the door and smiled. "Hi, you made it!" he exclaimed as he stepped forward to show her into the flat.

As John picked up one of the cases, a small blonde girl peered around the door and smiled at Irene. Irene figured this was Amelia Watson, so she smiled back at the little girl. Amelia let out a little giggle before she toddled back into the flat. "Is Sherlock in?" Irene asked quietly.

"Winston's coming up from a nap, so Sherlock's with him. They'll be out in a few minutes," John explained as he started walking towards an unfamiliar staircase.

"What is this? I don't remember this," Irene asked John.

"They did a bit of renovating. The upstairs room is now technically part of this flat. This will be your room."

John opened the door and stepped inside. When Irene followed him into the room and saw that the room had already been put together, she glanced over at John and examined him warily. "Did he put this together?"

"Genevieve did."

"Who is Genevieve?" Irene demanded, not meaning to sound as jealous as she had.

John laughed. "His mother. He decided that you two had similar enough of taste that he asked her to put this together for you since he had not the time nor the patience to do this himself."

She smiled slightly as she dragged her suitcases over to the closet. "Was this your room when you lived here?"

"Yes. It's a nice room. It's not as drafty as it was, so you won't have to worry about it getting too chilly in here. The last tenants made sure to leave the room better than they found it, which, quite honestly, wasn't great."

John left Irene to get settled before she went downstairs to see everyone. He figured she must have been close to losing her mind with nerves and anticipation, so he didn't want to make her more nervous by making idle chitchat. She stayed in the room until she heard Sherlock's voice downstairs.

When she reached the main floor of the flat, she quietly stood on the stairs and looked at the scene. Sherlock and John were talking about something, perhaps food or something, while Mary tied a few balloons to a chair, and the two children played with a balloon that Mary hadn't filled with helium. Irene nearly burst into tears when she saw her son, a small boy who looked almost exactly like his father. Winston had dark curls and pale eyes. His little grin didn't seem to come from either parent, but the fact that he was so readily able to smile and laugh assured Irene that he was a well-adjusted child. Sherlock had done a good job this past year.

"You don't need to hide. He doesn't bite anymore," Sherlock called from the center of the room.

The other two adults looked to Irene and smiled. Mary waved her down the stairs and over to help her with the balloons. Amelia toddled over to her mother and started babbling about the balloons she couldn't play with. Sherlock and John were still messing with the food on the table like a bunch of women. But it was Winston who Irene was most concerned about.

As soon as Amelia walked away, Winston tired of the balloon and walked over to his father. "Daddy, up!" he squeaked.

Sherlock glanced down at the little boy and picked him up so that he was able to stand on the chair next to his father. Winston examined everything that was in front of him and pointed at various things. "Boccoli?" he asked.

"Yes. That is broccoli. Would you like a piece?" Sherlock asked his son.

"Yes peas," Winston replied in a painfully adorable voice.

Sherlock handed Winston a small piece broccoli and returned to helping John. Irene had never felt timid around Sherlock, but now, here she was, horribly insecure about being in the presence of these people. Here, she had met the two men whilst naked. She laughed to herself about the irony of it all.

Winston looked over at her and held his broccoli out to her. "Boccoli?" he offered.

Irene smiled. "No thank you. That's your broccoli."

The expression on his face made her smile. He looked at her with a look that clearly said: "Whatever. Do whatever you want. I was nice." Irene knew that he had gotten that from his father. No doubt about it.

She helped Mary with the balloons but kept her eye on Winston, who was still munching away at his broccoli. He asked Sherlock for another piece once he was done with the one he had, and when Sherlock handed him another piece, he climbed off the chair and toddled over to Mary. "Mary!" he called cheerfully.

Mary looked over at Irene and smiled. "Is he always like this?" Irene asked quietly

Mary nodded. "He's honestly the happiest little boy I've ever met."

She looked down at the little boy and crouched down to him. "Winston, do you like your broccoli?"

He nodded earnestly.

A few minutes later, Mycroft and Mummy Holmes (AKA Genevieve) entered the flat, much to Winston's delight. He went running over to meet his uncle and grandmother and began cheering and babbling in excitement. Genevieve held a pink pastry box while Mycroft carried their coats and his umbrella. "Winston!" Genevieve exclaimed as she leaned down to give her grandson kisses and a quick hug.

He beamed at this show of affection and then returned to playing with the balloon on the ground. A few minutes later, he was playing with his stuffed animal dog. He was making a strange noise: "Bar', bar'. Bar', bar'," to which Irene had to ask what Sherlock what Winston was doing.

"He's barking," Sherlock answered flatly.

"Sorry?"

"He hasn't quite figured out that dogs don't make that noise. I don't know how he came up with that, but I suppose we need to spend some more time around dogs so he can master the noise they make," Sherlock explained, a hint of amusement in his voice.

The afternoon drew on. Irene felt even more and more out of her element the less and less Winston engaged with her. Sherlock could sense her discomfort, and eventually, sat Winston down on her lap and told him to tell Irene about his dog. This started a twenty-minute discussion regarding Winston's stuffed dog, Erlenmeyer. Even though the conversation was rather silly and was composed of Winston's imaginative ramblings, it served its purpose. By the end of the evening, Winston refused to have anyone other than Sherlock and Irene put him to bed.

The following day, Sherlock suggested that they go to the park so Winston could get some air and he could continue to reacquaint himself to Irene. However, it didn't really have the desired effect. John and Amelia showed up at the park, and Winston immediately ran off with Amelia, leaving Irene to sit on a park bench, watching as Winston and Amelia played on the playground. Sherlock and John wound up talking, but as soon as John pointed out that Irene had been staring at them, Sherlock strode over to her and sat down. "Yes?" he asked her quizzically.

"I've missed so much," she murmured. "I mean… he doesn't even remember who I am."

Sherlock almost confirmed her lamentations by assuring her that it was likely that he wouldn't remember seeing anyone at that age if he was only seeing them again now. But because she was clearly upset, he decided not to press his luck. "I've recorded everything. Well, most things. But I managed to film his first steps and his first word. And Mary demanded that I keep a curl of his hair from his first haircut. And then, I… well, it was actually Mary's doing, got his footprints and handprints just after he turned one. In addition, there are literally thousands of photographs on my computer for you. I figured you'd like them."

Irene gaped at him. "Are you serious?" she whispered.

He looked confused. "Yes. I just told you that I've done that. Why would I lie about that?"

"I don't doubt that you did those things; I'm just surprised that you did them with the conscious thought that I'd like them."

"Ah. I'm an ass, but I'm not completely heartless."

She snorted with laughter as she wiped away an errant tear she hadn't realized was there. "So, what was his first word?"

"Oh, it was rather dull. Formaldehyde."

"What?" she squawked.

"I know. I was really hoping that it would be deoxyribonucleic acid. But, to no avail," Sherlock hummed as he pulled his phone out to check the time.

"Sherlock… formaldehyde as a first word is not normal, and it's certainly impressive that an infant would know that word. But how, pray tell, did he learn that word? Was he in a morgue?"

"Oh no… Molly wouldn't allow him in the morgue. We've been practicing terms."

Irene was about to ask why and what Sherlock was teaching him, but then realized that it wouldn't make any difference and she probably wouldn't understand it anyway. She might as well just accept that Winston was going to be an evil genius in his own right. "But he's learned other words… normal words. Is he very talkative when it's just you two?"

Sherlock nodded. "Unfortunately."

"Unfortunately? Children are supposed to be talking!"

"Well, for a while there, he wasn't saying anything useful. But, he's getting better, especially since he is now able to help with cases."

"Sherlock… he's not at crime scenes, is he?"

"No. Lestrade put a kibosh on that the very first time. Didn't even have five minutes to look at the evidence. I think Winston would have rather liked it."

"I'm very glad that Lestrade and Molly have kept his well-being in mind," Irene stated as she stared at Sherlock pointedly.

"You seem to think that I'm incapable of knowing what is age appropriate. There were no bodies in the morgue when we went, and by the time we were looking at the case with Lestrade, we were at Scotland Yard. I wouldn't put him around any dead bodies. Therapy is terribly expensive these days."

Irene saw a ghost of a cheeky smile appear on Sherlock's face. She responded with a loud squawk and a slap to his arm. "He's never been to the morgue or Scotland Yard, has he?" she asked Sherlock.

He broke out into a huge grin. "No. I'm not a moron. He might be useful, but he's not that useful. He's still a distraction. But I have every intention of making him a primary figure once he's older."

"Don't do that," Irene warned. "Things like that don't sit well with an anxious mother."

Sherlock didn't say anything in response; he only scrolled through his phone. Winston came running over to him and pulled on his pant leg. "Daddy!" he cried.

Sherlock peeled his eyes away from the phone and raised his eyebrows at his son. "Yes?"

"Swings!"

"Where are Amelia and John?"

Winston pointed to John and his daughter, who weren't too far away from them, but on their way to feed the ducks. Since Winston was terrified of the ducks but Amelia loved them, John sent Winston back over to his parents. "Ducks," Winston explained sadly.

Sherlock nodded and then stood up. Winston reached for his father's hand and began to lead Sherlock to the swings. Irene gathered their things and stood up to follow them, wanting to use this as an opportunity to begin the integration process. She still didn't really understand how their relationship had evolved, but it was clear that Winston had been able to get over his clinginess. If this was at all a result of Sherlock's parenting, she definitely had to give him credit.

They were at the swings for a while, because Winston loved the swings. He shrieked with joy and giggled at the doubled attention he was receiving. Sherlock was relieved that Irene didn't seem as awkward with Winston, but hoped that things would progress a little quicker. He needed things to settle quickly before he could brief Irene on the rest of his plan.

Eventually, Winston was exhausted from all the excitement and was ready for a nap. They hailed a cab and within a minute, Winston was asleep. For most of the drive, Irene sat quietly as she watched Winston sleep on his father's shoulder. "You've been quiet," Sherlock observed, keeping his voice low to not wake Winston.

She inhaled and turned to look out the window at the passing scenery. "Kate has been dead for a year and a half. I imagine that she's be thrilled to see her craftsmanship," Irene answered wistfully.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmured. "I can't imagine what that is like."

"You can't?"

The cab pulled up in front of 221 Baker Street. Irene handed the cabbie a few notes before following Sherlock and Winston out of the cab. Sherlock waited on the curb for Irene. "I've never been in love," he confessed. "The idea never intrigued me."

Irene put her hand on her hip and cocked her head. "I don't believe that one for a moment," she teased.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Now, that's not to say that I've never loved anyone. But I've never been _in_ love."

"How can that possibly be?"

"Been busy."

This remark left Irene momentarily speechless. She didn't have a response to Sherlock's blasé statement until they were in the flat and Winston was asleep in his crib. "You've been busy, huh?"

"Why does that surprise you?"

"I don't know. I suppose I always thought that you could fall in love. Fall head over heels."

"Ha."

"No, I'm serious. You obviously have the capacity to feel affection towards people, so why couldn't that evolve into romantic love?"

"No one ever truly stays with me. John's still with me, but he's got two people who will forever stand ahead of me in his priorities, as they should. Winston's still with me, but we wouldn't want him roaming the streets on his own anyway; he'd pose a threat to international security. Mycroft and Mummy, well… they're somewhat by default, I'm afraid."

He deliberately avoided mentioning Irene. She was going to call him on it. "And me?"

"You're a gnat."

"Thank you."

"A pest. No… you're more like a leech. That's more like it. There whether I expected it or not, hard to remove, and leaves one hell of a mark after you've left."

"You know, for a moment there, I thought you were going to confess your undying love for me," Irene deadpanned as she rolled her eyes.

Sherlock walked into the kitchen and retrieved an apple from the counter. After taking in a bite and chewing it thoughtfully, he swallowed and examined Irene. "You know… this marriage doesn't have to be a complete waste. I do think that eventually, we could have a productive and collaborative marriage. It is highly unlikely that we will ever have a physical, let alone typical relationship, but I think if we keep up with the counseling and keep the wellbeing of our relationship as our primary focus, we might be able to avoid screwing Winston up."

"Why is that?"

He took another bite. "Despite the fact that it drives me insane, we do have some sort of a connection. There is something that draws me to you and you to me."

"Yes…"

What remained unsaid was that Sherlock believed that had things gone differently between them, meaning that Irene hadn't taken advantage of Sherlock in her efforts to have a child, perhaps they would have ended up here, or in a situation similar to this, on their own, both in agreement that this was the best route for their lives to take. Since things had always gone Irene's way, it was now time for Sherlock to have his way in this situation. The counseling had been his idea; living in the same flat but in separate bedrooms so Winston would have both parents was his idea; it had been his idea to keep it together so Winston might be able to have a normal childhood despite his extraordinarily violating conception.

"Do you really believe that, or are you just saying that?" Irene asked after a moment, staring to feel insecure in the presence of a suddenly very human Sherlock.

"Yes."

"Why?"

Now the apple was nearly halfway gone. "I will never forgive you for what you did. I will have trouble trusting you for years to come. I will always be more cautious with you around. But the truth of the matter is, Winston is not at fault. It should not be his burden to bear. And you wanted security from a marriage. You wanted protection and immunity and a baby and to get back at me. Well, you have what you wanted."

"But this is not what you wanted."

"Of course not. But I'd much rather see you accountable for your actions than walk away from this and never speak to you again."

It was at this point that Irene finally saw what Sherlock was doing; she saw all the reasons behind why he was so keen on keeping her around.

"Oh my god."

He grinned wickedly at her. "You like games, Miss Alder. Lucky for you: so do I!"

"You are a bastard," she laughed.

She knew he had her. He had won. Lord, he had won. And she wasn't even concerned about it. She knew that she could never best him and retrieve the upper hand. There was far too much at stake for her if she ever tried. However, he was correct: she had everything she wanted. Of course, she would have wanted all of this with Kate, but Sherlock had proven to be a worthy replacement. She had grown rather fond of him.

"I think we can call it even now," Sherlock remarked as he finished his apple.

Irene nodded and just as she was about to turn and walk out of the kitchen, she stopped herself and held up a hand to get Sherlock's attention. "This is justice, isn't it?"

"Sorry?"

"This: keeping me with my child, allowing me protection and immunity, and humoring me in my scheming when you could have just as easily stripped me of all of that as you did before. This is justice, isn't it?"

"Oh. Yes."

"What has changed?"

"There are far more important things to be focused on now. In about forty-five minutes, one of them will be running around the flat again."

"So it really is because of Winston?"

"Of course."

"But why?"

Sherlock would never admit openly to Irene (or anyone else for that matter) just how much he had come to adore his son. It had taken him a long time to admit and accept that Winston was his son, but once he had, there was no denying that Winston was the most important thing in his life. But, he was open to the notion that Winston didn't have to be the only most important thing in his life. He was open to the thought that there could be room for another person with that title.

Instead of answering her question, he just smiled knowingly and took another bite of his apple as he walked out of the kitchen.

Two months later, he began to wear a wedding ring.

* * *

So, while Sherlock wished that Irene hadn't played such a prominent role in his life, secretly, he would be grateful for her involvement. Irene would always represent every reason why Sherlock avoided vulnerability and would never be comfortable with sexual contact. In the same, she would represent why he was able to be vulnerable and human with his son and accentuate how much Sherlock changed for his son.

After all, a retirement kept busy with beekeeping (and hiding from a nagging Irene) provided a lot of time for reflection.


End file.
